Catching Up
by The ORIGINAL Corky
Summary: In 1929 the original Newsies from the 1899 strike all venture out to California for a reunion. On the way, one newsie tells his son all about his friends and their cause. This is his story. :EACH NEWSIE HAS HIS OWN FEATURED SHORT STORY/CHAPTER!:
1. Les: Getting Ready to Go

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies, though I wish I did. ::le sigh:: Someday...**

**Author's Note: I'm co-writing this with my best friend, so please be patient with us. Also please note that some of the characters lives don't have a happy ending, and I apologize but sometimes lives don't always end happily so...that's why. Please review, we'd really appreciate it. More chapters to come soon!! **

**~Corky and Kidah  
**

* * *

Les sat in the living room as the sun rose, peeking up over the rooftops across the city. He sipped the hot coffee from his mug, and rubbed his neck, glancing at the newspaper that laid on his desk across the room. He could hear the floor creak over his head, and he smiled, glad his family had stayed asleep through the night. The last thing he wanted was to have woken them with his tossing and turning the night before.

Climbing from the couch, he slid his feet into his slippers, and made his way to his desk, dropping into his chair as the sound of footsteps sounded around the corner.

"Les? Honey?"

A smile crossed his face – as it always did when he heard her voice – and he put his cup down. "I'm at my desk, sweetheart..."

The sweet, smiling, tired face of his wife poked around the corner, and she chuckled, making her way over to place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"You're train isn't for a few hours – why are you up so early?" she asked, running her hand down his hair as she leaned her head against his. Les wrapped his arms around her, and gave her a small, awkward hug.

"I couldn't sleep," was all he could think of to reply with. She gave a small "tsk", and kissed his head, standing up straight again.

"Are you nervous, honey?"

Les looked at the newspaper as he rested his head on his wife's somewhat large stomach, and sighed, nodding slightly.

"I think I am...I haven't seen any of these guys in a very long time, so I think we're probably all nervous. The last one of them I saw was Spot, and he was so mad he won't even see me when I stop by," he replied, looking up at her. "But...I know things will be fine. They always were..." He paused, feeling a small kick against his hands, and laughed. "So how's he doin'?" he asked, rubbing her sides gently.

His wife laughed, and shook her head.

"He's doing fine. As he has been. I don't want you to worry about me – mom and dad are just down the road, and Richard can run really fast if I need him to go get them," she said, cupping his cheek. Les smiled, but was glad she'd brought it up. That was one of the bigger reasons he was scared to go to California – what happened if his wife went into labor while he was away? He'd been home for the rest of the children, and home within ten minutes, no matter what he was in the middle of.

"Alright...I make no promises, but I'll try not to worry..."

"Mooooom! Are you hungry?" a teenage girls voice sounded from the kitchen.

Turning around to glance off towards the kitchen, she laughed lightly and rubbed her large stomach. "Of course! Les? Are you?" He shook his head, picking up his coffee and sipping it. "Alright – I'm going to go help Lilly with breakfast."

Les tilted his head back. "Morning, Lilly,"

"Morning, daddy!" she called back, before clamoring around with the dishes.

"Heh...maybe you should get in there before she breaks something...but no cooking, okay? Just let her." His wife rolled her eyes, but kissed his forehead again before disappearing around the corner and into the kitchen.

Turning back in his chair, Les lifted the paper from the day before, and sighed, shaking his head. He ran his fingers across the print, and the _World_ logo at the top. Shutting his eyes, he could still picture the days, years earlier, when he hawked that very paper across the streets of Manhattan with his brother and their friends. Despite the rocky start, coming into the newsie world just before the strike, the boys continued to successfully sell the _World _until they were too old to be "newsboys" any longer, and had to find other work. His memories, his thoughts, would have continued, had the voice of a young boy not interrupted him.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

Les looked over, reopening his eyes, and smiled, nodding.

"Yeah, Donnie. I'm fine...why aren't you in the kitchen, with your mom and your sister?"

Donnie grimaced, and shook his head. "Not hungry...at least not for Lilly's breakfast...'

"I heard that!" she hollered, though she didn't leave the kitchen. Les snickered, and reached out his hand, waving Donnie over.

"I'm fine, little guy. How are you doing? You ready for this trip?"

He shrugged, but nodded and smiled, before looking at the paper. "I guess so...what're you lookin' at, Dad?"

"Just the paper...did I tell you I used to sell these?"

Donnie turned around, looking at his dad in disbelief. With a chuckle, Les reached over, passed his desk lamp, and pulled a picture frame towards the two. Pointing to the youngest in the photo, right in the middle, Les smiled proudly.

"That...that was me. Me, and all the other newsies I sold with, including your Uncle David," he replied, biting his lip.

"Wow...what was this picture for?"

"Do you remember me telling you about Bryan Denton?" Donnie nodded slowly and looked at the picture. "Well...he took this picture for the paper...it was during the big Newsie Strike....I was ten," he explained, as if Donnie would understand everything. Instead, though, the young boy just stared up at his dad with a slightly blank look in his eyes.

With a soft laugh, Les, pulled the picture off the desk, and reached down, scooping Donnie up into his lap. Holding the picture down so they could both see, Les looked at his young son, a spitting image of himself at that age, and smiled.

"When I was ten, the Newsboys went on strike. Joseph Pulitzer had raised the price we had to pay to buy papers for selling, an additional ten cents for every hundred papers. And, when you're practically homeless, struggling to eat, and have to keep any and all papers you don't sell, that ten cents can make all the difference," he replied, digging his hand into a drawer and pulling out the actual article that had gone with the photo he had framed. It was yellowed, and faded, but the words were still readable.

"We brought in every newsboy we could to join us, and every single one we found did. We had Brooklyn, Queens, Harlem, Midtown - any place in New York that we could get to, we talked them into joining us to try and lower the price to where it was. When we did, not only did they drop the price back, but they also allowed us to sell back anything we couldn't sell. It made our days a little easier, and a little more bearable..."

Donnie looked over the photograph, leaning against his dad, and pointed to one of the faces, just a few over from the image of his father, clad in a checked shirt and suspenders. "He seems familiar, dad...."

Les looked at the photo, and for a moment he felt nothing but anger in his throat, but it didn't last. The anger turned to a sense of sorrow he'd felt many a night over the past several years. Sighing softly, he smiled sadly, and tilted the picture some to see it.

"That's Patrick," he said slowly.

Donnie recalled the name, and looked up at his dad curiously.

"Where's he now?"

That same sad look crossed Les' face again, and he shut his eyes. "He got into a lot of trouble a few years back...."


	2. Spot: Death Row

2. Spot: Death Row

The pale moonlight washed through the narrow window, casting its shadows down onto the cold concrete floor. A rat darted across the room, pausing just long enough to screech at the cockroaches that went scurrying by. Mournful echoes bounced off the stone and plaster walls; the cries of men begging the Lord for forgiveness. Many of the men weeping that night would never see their families—if they had any to begin with—ever again. The stench of a thousand deaths hung rank in the air; no, this was a far cry from the Lodging Houses many of them had grown up in. This was death row.

In his cramped six by eight cell, Patrick Conlon lie on his cot, staring up at the leaky and cracked plaster ceiling above him. It was no use to cry, he'd never once cried before in his life and he wasn't about to start now. His life had always been a rough one, full of scrapes and brawls. Once upon a time he'd been the most feared newsboy in all of New York, the leader of the toughest bunch of thugs to ever cross the Brooklyn Bridge.

"_Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsie in all of New York, and…and probably anywhere else, and if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they'll join, and we'll be unstoppable. So, you gotta join, because, well…you gotta!"_

David's words still rang in Patrick's head even now. He'd been full of life then; ready to take on the world single handedly and fight anyone who got in his way. That life seemed like a hundred years ago as the forty-five year pushed himself off his cot and moved to the window. He was no longer Spot Conlon, the fifteen-year-old leader of the Brooklyn Newsies that helped to bring _The World_ to its knees; he was Patrick Devin Conlon, convicted murderer. His slingshot and marbles had been traded in years prior for a pistol and bullets.

Clutching the cold steel bars, Patrick looked out at the bright full moon and sighed. For fourteen years he'd been locked in that cell like an animal for a crime he didn't even fully remember committing. He'd been foolish for letting his Irish roots get the best of him that night, he knew that much at least. His lawyer, Les Jacobs, had tried his hardest to win the case for Patrick, but fresh out of law school and still wet behind the ears, Les was still far too naïve to properly handle his case. Thinking back on it, Patrick realized that his temper and numerous outbursts during the many trials hadn't made things any easier on his long time friend.

It had been a cold, snowy night in January when Patrick entered the smoky little speakeasy. Gangsters and high brow businessmen sat at tables, laughing, and smoking, drinking and gambling. It was just the sort of place the thirty-one-year-old liked. He'd moved to sit at the bar and began to order shots of Irish whiskey hand-over-fist. After being out in the cold for longer than he cared for, Patrick craved the warmth his liquor of choice brought him. He couldn't recall how long he'd been sitting at the bar drinking, nor how much he had gulped down, time had a way of getting away from him once that Irish blood of his mixed with the alcohol. Even fourteen years later, Patrick still couldn't recall the exact happenings of that night once he'd become intoxicated, only that an angry man with a black bowler hat had confronted him, demanding that he leave immediately. When Patrick had refused, the man became violent, threatening his life and the lives of those he cared for. He supposed it hadn't been a wise idea at the time to laugh at the man when he threatened to kill anyone he cared about; it just had been humorous to him. Patrick Conlon have someone he honestly cared about? Even sober the thought was laughable to him.

According to witnesses, the man had become infuriated with Patrick when he'd laughed in his face and proceeded to start a physical fight with him. After a few minutes of punches being thrown, a gun had appeared and was fired twice; both entering and exiting the angry man's stomach. True, the gun did belong to Conlon, he took it everywhere with him, it was what police officers did. He'd had it tucked into the inside pocket of his long wool coat and while the handle of it held mainly his finger prints, there were a few prints that did not match his own. That didn't matter though it seemed, the gun was last seen in his hands while the angry man lie bleeding to death on the ground. That alone had been enough for the jury to condemn a man who for nearly eleven years did his best to protect the streets of his old haunts and hangouts in Brooklyn.

For years after being sentenced to life imprisonment, Les had fought the system for an appeal, desperate to do right by Patrick and get him released somehow. It was no use though, neither judge nor jury had been sympathetic; each time Les tried, his pleads and defenses were always ignored. Until recently he would come to visit Patrick, bringing with him that morning's edition of _The New York Times_ as well as any other bits of news he thought the inmate might care to hear about.

"_Look Les, it's bad enough I gotta rot in dis hell hole da rest o' my life, watchin' da woild from da inside out; I don't wanna hear 'bout nothin' that's goin' on out dere, alright? So just…leave. Leave an' don't come back, ya hear?"_

"_But…Spot, I thought,"_

"_Ya thought nothin', kid! Ya thought ya could keep me outta 'ere, yet 'ere I am, servin' a life sentence for somet'ing I don't even remember doin'! So just get da hell outta 'ere and don't evah come back! I see yer face again in 'ere, an' you'll regret it!"_

Patrick hated himself for shunning Les the way he had. It had been nearly three years since he last saw his friend and nearly twenty since he last saw the others from his youth. By now they all had to have gotten married with respectable jobs, maybe even a kid or two. Patrick laughed to himself at that thought. He couldn't picture any of those bums getting married let alone having little ones tugging on their slacks. He was glad he'd never gotten married, not because he hadn't wanted to (a small part of him had once dreamed of having a home with kids of his own) but because if he had, he would have shamed his entire family by being locked up like he was.

A cool breeze drifted through the open window, ruffling his shaggy light brown hair. Closing his hazel eyes, Patrick inhaled deeply and savored the scent of summer. It was warm and sweet, filled with the fragrance of tree leaves and flowers. All too often during the summers, young Spot Conlon would sleep on the docks overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge and East River sea ports. From his perch, he was able to see the activity across the way in Manhattan, and would often let his imagination take flight. It was the only time he ever felt free. In the distance he could hear the ghostly howl of a train whistle followed by the pops and bangs of the automobiles bouncing down the dirt roads surrounding the prison.

Down the hall an anguished scream shattered the semi-silence. The sound knotted Patrick's stomach and reminded him all too well why he'd been moved from the cell he'd been originally sentenced to lead the rest of his meaningless life from to the one on death row he now occupied. This time he hadn't been drunk, his memory of that day was crisp in his mind. Now they had reason for accusing him of murder. Prison was not a place for the weak; in order to survive you had to be able and willing to do just about anything, even if it meant killing a man—thus sentencing your own self to death—to live just a few days longer.

Turning his attention back out the window to gaze out at the night sky, Patrick sighed heavily. In just a few short months, he would be making the longest walk of his life. Moving to sit on his cot once more, he glanced at his meager belongings. A book, a pad of paper and a pencil were all he was allowed to have in order to make his last days on earth more "enjoyable". Patrick reached for the book. Opening it, he carefully removed the worn and tattered piece of paper tucked safely between its pages. Though the ink had faded considerably in the thirty years since the newsboy strike of 1899, he could still pick out each and every one of his friends. Looking the picture over, a sad small smile spread across his face. That day had been one of the few he'd actually been honestly happy. The newsies were on top of the world that day, nothing could touch them and nothing could bring them down as they valiantly fought off the thugs Pulitzer had hired to try and scare them back into selling his paper.

Reverently placing the picture back into his book and setting the book back under his pillow, Patrick "Spot" Conlon laid back down to stare at his ceiling once more. Closing his eyes, he allowed a small cocky smirk to etch across his face as he drifted off to sleep at last, the distant voices of days gone by cheering for his arrival.

"_Nevah fear, Brooklyn is 'ere!"_

"_Hey it's Brooklyn! Brooklyn!"_

"_Hey Spot!"_

* * *

Les looked down at Donnie, and sighed. Noting the sadness on his dad's face, Donnie wrapped his arms around the older man, and embraced him for a moment. Thankful for his son, Les returned the embrace, and kissed the top of the young one's head.

"Thanks, son...Did you pack everything up for this trip?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. Donnie looked up, and nodded, but the hesitation behind it made Les chuckle, set his son down, and stand up. "Come on - let's go make sure so mom doesn't worry."

"Dad? Will you tell me more about the others?" Donnie asked, grabbing the frame before following his dad to the steps. Les looked down, and smiled, nodding.

"Sure thing, kiddo. Pick a face - we can keep going."

The young boy scanned the photograph, following his dad up the steps to his bedroom, before pointing and leaning around his father. Les looked down to see, and another wave passed over his face, from sorrow, to despair, to pain, but all of them disappeared as he rubbed his hand over his son's hair.

"This one...He had his tendencies, like the rest of us, to be stupid and irresponsible...but..." Les considered his statement, choosing his words carefully so he spoke right by everyone he knew. "...he was probably one of the bravest men I ever met."


	3. Snitcher: A Letter Home

3. Snitcher: A Letter Home

_March 13, 1915_

_My dearest Margie,_

_Things is rough over here in France, real rough. If you thought me living on the streets back in New York was bad, I'd hate to imagine what you must be thinking about me being over here right now. Bombs dropping all around me night and day, food that we gots to share with whatever animals and rodents beat us to it, bullets whizzing by my head…it's a real mess, Marge. _

_I'm in a trench right now, supposed to be sleeping but that's hard to do when you've got cold rain beating down on you in every direction and freezing to you in layers. A young kid, only about sixteen or seventeen, is sitting nearby coughing up a storm; I somehow don't think he's going to make it back to his folks. Yesterday I saw a fella just disappear. We'd been marching along through a field, silent as could be, and then all of the sudden I was thrown through the air, my ears ringing like you couldn't even begin to imagine. When I managed to pick myself back up, there was nothing but a big hole where the fella had been. I'd been lucky, I guess…all around that hole there was guys…or what was left of 'em anyways. The horrors and pain I went through on the streets ain't nothing compared to what I've seen here._

_I have every letter you sent me tucked into my knapsack. Tell Jackie that I keep her picture right where I promised I would, with yours and my newspaper picture in my shirt pocket, right against my heart. I look at those three pieces every night. I wish I could have been home for Jackie's seventh birthday, but hopefully her present should be there soon._

_God I miss you both. In your last letter you said you'd gotten news from Les that he and his wife just had a little boy? Lilly must be happy to have a little brother to play with now. Did he say anything about any of the others? I miss those guys. I wish I could have made it back over there for the last time they all got back together. Don't get me wrong, I love you and Jackie and I love living in London, but sometimes I really miss walking down Duane Street and seeing Skitts and Bum battling on the doorsteps with their walking sticks. I can even still taste the sausages that we'd get at Tibby's after selling. Despite all my hardships growing up, Marge, I wouldn't trade a single minute of it for anything._

_It's hard to believe it's been ten years since I left New York for England, but since it meant I got to stay with you, it was all worth it. When I get home, you and I are taking Jackie to see where her papa grew up and so I can show ya's off to all the guys. Who would have thought a goofy lookin' guy like me could be able to nab such a beautiful wife like you…Jackie sure does get her looks from you, darling._

_I'm sorry this letter is going to be so hard to read. I've been doing my best to try and keep the rain from ruining it too bad…hasn't been working very well has it. The lieutenant told us that we'll be marching for a few days in the morning, so I better try to get some sleep now. Our mail runner was gunned down a week ago, so hopefully we'll be able to go through a town that still has postal services so that I can send this off to you. Be sure to give Jackie a big hug and kiss for me, and I send all my love to you. Take care of yourself Margie._

_Yours sincerely always,_

_Colour Sergeant  
David "Snitch" O'Connell  
British First Army  
3__rd__ Division_

Margaret Finch-O'Connell stared at the letter she held in her hand. Tears blurred her vision as she crumbled onto the stairs of her small flat in London. The solider had arrived to deliver David's personal belongings earlier that afternoon. She'd been told that he had died most valiantly as he did his best to save the life of his commanding officer as their division was attacked by a new wave of foul play by the Germans. Not more than a month after David had written his letter, the Germans attacked using lethal amounts of chlorine gas.

Poisoned to death.

He had lived through pneumonia, many bouts with life threatening spells of influenza, living on the streets of Manhattan only to be killed by a poisonous gas while at war serving for a country that wasn't even his own! If only he hadn't followed her back to London like a lovesick puppy, he would still be alive! He would still be living a happy life in America with all of his friends. Instead, he'd given up everything he'd known his whole life, and at the age of twenty crossed the ocean with her and her family.

Never again would he get to tell stories of his childhood to their daughter Jacqueline—Jack or Jackie as he had always so lovingly referred to her as. He would never get to watch her grow up and get married, have children of her own. He had already missed the first reunion his friends had planned to celebrate their success at proving the power of the people _could_ be more powerful than that of the press. Now he would never get to see any of them ever again.

Jackie stood at the top of the stairs, clutching the pretty porcelain doll her father had sent her for her birthday. It had arrived just the day before, two and a half months after she'd turned seven, but it had finally arrived. The doll wasn't a little girl with a pretty pink dress she had asked for; instead it was a little boy in knickers, a white shirt, period style boots that came up just above his ankles. His face was solemn, staring at her with his haunting brown eyes as a single curl of brown hair wisped across his forehead. Jackie had instantly fallen in love with the little boy doll, proclaiming that he looked just like her daddy when he was a newspaper boy and that his name would be Snitch, just like his had been many years ago.

Moving down the stairs to sit by her mother, Jackie wrapped her arms around Margie in a comforting hug.

"It's ok mama. Papa sent me Snitch to look after us for him."

Crying harder, Margie pulled her daughter in for a tight hug. As she cried, Jackie looked to the small stack sitting by the door; her father's uniforms and boots, his helmet and gloves, medals he'd been awarded throughout his short career with the British Army, a notebook with a nubby pencil attached to it by a piece of string. Sitting on top of the stack was a brown leather sack that Jackie had always loved because it was one of the few things her father had brought with him from America—years worth of winning marbles had been safeguarded from the elements within the confines of that simple leather pouch. That wasn't what Jackie noticed most though. What held her gaze were the three photographs that the soldier had propped against the wall, one of her she had given to David before he'd gone to war, one of her mother from their wedding day eight years prior, and the one that had always brought a smile to her face—the one which she had a copy of framed next to her bed for her to look at when she went to bed—the colors had faded and bled but Jackie had that age old newspaper photo burned into her memory.

"_The Children's Crusade: Newsies Stop The World."_

* * *

"He sounded very brave, daddy..." Donnie spoke, plopping down onto his bed as his dad leaned against the wall. He had his head in his hands, and he heaved several hard, deep breaths, before he could stand up straight and look at his son straight on again. Telling him about Snitch was one of the few stories that, quite literally, shattered his heart. Les could still picture the day he found out about his death - Margie had sent a letter of her own, as well as the last letter from Snitch, to him, asking him to duplicate the letter as best he could so he would have a record of it. Les was the only one she had a correct address for, and, as he was in the practice of law, he was the only one she could trust to duplicate the letter and return the original safely to her.

"He was, Donnie...He loved his wife, and his little girl, more than anything. While he didn't do it often, I did get a letter or two from him during his time at war..." Les sighed, and shook his head, waving his hands a little bit. "Pick someone else, son..."

It was evident that Donnie felt bad, believing it was his fault that his father looked so upset, but when Les kissed the top of his head in comfort, he released a gentle sigh, and began to look for another face. Donnie tilted his head, and looked down at the photograph, before tapping the tip of his finger upon one of the boys, his face partially hidden behind his Uncle David. Les peered over his shoulder before he could ask, and smiled, squeezing his shoulders.

"That one, kiddo...is more of a joint story, with him," he said, reaching around and pointing to a second face that was just a few away from his own, and one away from Patrick's. "Those two have come close to getting as far from the newsboy lifestyle as possible. Though, most of us have, I suppose..."

Donnie tilted his head back to see his father. "Really?"

"Yeah. In fact...of all the newsboys, I think those two are two that I am most impressed with..."


	4. B and M: Diamond Myers Department Store

**Author's Note: In case anyone is curious, here are the ages and occupations of each of the newsies featured in this story. **Boots: Trolley driver –age: 42. Bumlets: Restaurant owner–age: 45. Blink: Department Store co-owner--age: 46. Crutchy: Missionary—age: 43. Dave: Teacher—age: 47. Dutchy: Newsboys Lodging House manager (took over for Kloppman)—age: 45. Itey: Policeman—age: 44. Jack: Rancher—age: 47. Jake: Farmer/drunk—age: 44. Les: Lawyer--age: 40. Mush: Department Store Co-Owner (with Blink)--age: 45. Pie Eater: Baker—age: 47. Racetrack: Gangster—age: 46. Skittery: Director (silent films/movies)—age: 48. Snipeshooter: deceased (killed for runnin' his mouth)—age: (at time of death) 23 (year: 1912). Snitch: deceased (killed in WWI)--age: (at time of death) 30 (year: 1915). Snoddy: Stock Broker—age: 48. Specs: optometrist—age: 47. Spot: Prisoner--age: 45. Swifty: Policeman—age: 46

**Kidah and I hope you all continue to enjoy the story, we've been putting a lot of hard work and energy into it doing research and such so we can get things right. Please don't forget to review it, it makes us feel as if we don't suck quite so bad after all. Thank you and have a nice day :)**

* * *

4. Blink and Mush: Diamond Myers Department Store

It was his idea to start the store, so it was only right his name was first billing. Besides, "Diamond Myers" had a nice ring to it so Daniel "Mush" Myers really wasn't all that upset seeing his name second. It'd been that way most of their lives; always "Blink and Mush". He'd always put it off as Blink's nickname coming first in the alphabet therefore making it sound a bit better, things always sounded better when in alphabetical order.

Moving back into the store, Daniel looked around and smiled. It wasn't as big as some department stores he'd seen recently, but it was two floors chalked full of clothing for men, women, and children, along with some household goods and even a little section of toys and candies for the kids. The two grand windows on either side of the door were decorated nicely by Holly and Molly, his twin teenage daughters, displaying the latest in summer fashion for men and women while also showing off the brand new supply of teddy bears and rocking horses they'd gotten in.

Diamond Myers Department Store had been open for almost fifteen years, going from a one floor candy and specialty shop to a floor and a half specialty and clothing store and finally progressing into the two floors it was that day. It had been Phillip "Kid Blink" Diamond's idea to start their own business. Both boys had long since stopped selling papers for Joseph Pulitzer and had each grown bored with their meaningless and dead-end jobs in various over priced shops in Manhattan. The city had out grown them both faster than they could blink, progress taking over as story high buildings began cropping up all over their island and more and more people moved into the unincorporated areas of Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx. Deciding it was time to seek out new adventures, Blink and Mush—both in their mid-twenties—packed what few belongings they had and headed west.

While Cleveland was still a growing and bustling city, it was almost a whole other world to them both. It seemed to be nothing compared to their hometown—for years both would write back to their friends saying they were adjusting to 'small town life' just fine—and the opportunities were far greater than they could have ever of expected. For the first few years, they had worked in the printing office of the Cleveland Sentinel, doing the very same job Mr. Wiesel and his nephews Oscar and Morris Delancey had once done at The World Distribution Center. It hadn't been their ideal job, but it at least paid the rent for their shared room and supplied them with a bit of spending cash.

Daniel smiled to himself as he wiped down the counter and thought back on that shared room. It hadn't been a very big space, just barely enough room for two beds and the small chest of drawers they had shared, but it was while they stayed in that rented room of the Bordell Home that they'd met Clara and Hannah Bordell. It didn't take them long to begin the long and torturous process of trying to court the girls, Henry Bordell being strongly opposed to his daughters carrying on with their borders. In the end though, it didn't matter what he'd thought of them, when the boys had proven they worked hard for their wages and would be able to take care of the only daughters he had, Henry gave his blessings—Hannah and Phillip married in May while Clara and Daniel in June.

That had been nearly eighteen years ago, and while it had taken Phillip and Daniel longer than they had expected to get their little store up and running, their wives and families had been as supportive as they could possibly be. Their patience and support had ultimately paid off and now the two men, who all their lives had dressed in ratty rags and worn-out boots nearly a size or two too small, dressed in fine suits and comfortable shoes; their wives always in the latest fashion while their children were able to attend some of the best schools in the county. Phillip's oldest son, William, had just graduated high school at the top of his class and would be going on to Columbia University on a music scholarship; while Daniel's twin girls had dreams of going to school in Paris to learn fashion design and art.

The jingle of the bell above the door brought Daniel out of his thoughts and brought a smile to his face. A horde of children, led by Phillip's youngest, came bounding in and straight for the counter.

"Did'ja get 'em yet? Did'ja?" A boy with hair the color of midnight questioned hopefully, his bright blue eyes shining brightly. A little girl to his left rolled her eyes as she brushed her unruly dishwater blond bangs from her face and gave a slight shove to the boy's shoulders.

"Where's your manners, Flip?"

"Aw c'mon, Del! It's jist yer Uncle Mush! So did'ja!?"

Daniel laughed lightly as he looked at the group of six-year-olds. Delia Diamond was the first and only daughter born to Phillip and Hannah, the last in a line of five children, she was as tough as nails and hardly acted like a lady—much to her mother, aunt, and grandmother's chagrin. There, surrounded by all the boys from the street she'd made friends with, Daniel couldn't help but notice just how much she looked and acted like her father. If one had put an eye patch over her left eye and tucked her hair up under a hat, they'd swear she was the ghost of her father's younger self.

"Yeah Flip, we got 'em in. Now, you kids are going to have to take turns because there's only two, ok?"

A whoop of excitement sounded from the group as Daniel ducked down behind the counter. When he reappeared he held in his hand a set of the latest toys to hit the market, yo-yo's. Eyes wide with wonder, Flip and Delia reached out to each take one before yanking them out of the reach of the other children, leveling them all with cold glares.

"Hey, what'd I just tell ya's? You're gonna hafta share. Now go on out and play, it's too nice out to be in here. Go on." Daniel laughed as he shooed the children out the door and back out onto the streets to play and try out their new toy.

Moving back to the counter, Daniel picked his cleaning clothe up off the counter once more and moved for the framed pictures hanging on the wall behind the register. Both he and Phillip had decided it was a good idea for them to document the progress of their store and display it for their customer's to see. There was a picture of the pair standing outside of a rundown building they'd just bought to start off in, followed by another picture of them inside the building once things were up and running. Pictures from nearly every stage of their business were hanging on that wall, but the most prominent photo featured on the wall was one that not many understood. How Denton had been able to afford buying and framing a copy of The Sun that covered the newsies strike for every boy shown in the picture, Mush still didn't know. A paper sign next to the picture, written in the sloppy paint writing only a child could write, read: "Our Pops! Mush Myers and Kid Blink Diamond!" with an arrow pointing to where Blink was at least. Jake, Daniel's youngest son, had painted that sign for his father to hang up when he'd been just six-years-old and to that day still bragged to people that his "Pop" had made headlines years before in "The Big City".

"Hey Pops, how's this look?" a man's voice called as it emerged from a backroom carrying with him a large sign. Glancing away from 'dusting' the newspaper frame, Daniel glanced back at the teenage boy with black curly hair.

"_We will be closed Monday, July 18th until Friday, July 22nd for family vacation. Regular hours will resume Monday the 25th. Thank you and enjoy your week. Sincerely, K.B.P. Diamond and D.M. Myers._" Mush read aloud. "That looks great, Jake, thanks for doin' that for us."

"Sure thing Pops. You know I like making signs. Want me to go ahead and hang it now, or should I wait for you and Uncle Kid to leave for California?"

"Better put it up now, Monday's going to be here sooner than we expect. Thanks again."

Jake smiled as he moved to set the hand drawn and painted sign in a display window just as his uncle stepped into view. Tapping on the window to get his nephew's attention, Blink smiled from ear to ear and gave his nod of approval before stepping inside.

"Sign looks great, Jake! Man, Mush, this is going to be so great seeing those guys again!" Phillip couldn't erase the eager grin from his face as he moved to look at the photo hanging on the wall by his lifelong best friend. "It just ain't gonna be the same though without Spot, Snitch, or Snipes. But, from what I hear, Race is actually gonna be there, so I guess that's a plus."

Quirking an eyebrow, Daniel glanced at his teen son and then back to his business partner. "Really? Even though Itey and Swifty are gonna be there? That's brave of him."

"Maybe he figures they won't do anything if it's our reunion?"

"I guess that might be it. Either way, it is gonna be great to see everyone again. Just wish the kids and girls could come with us this time."

Reaching into the glass jar holding cherry whips, Jake gave a little shrug as he smirked. "Aw Pops, it's ok. Not like we haven't ever met them all before. Besides, ya guys tell the same stories every time ya's get together and I mean, I love ya's and I love the stories but, I'd rather be takin' Marcie to the dance than sitting out in California hearing the same thing over and over again."

A smirk of his own forming on his face, Mush nudged Blink and shrugged. "Guess he's right but, at least this time I've got a new story to tell."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"A story about how my youngest son finally got his head out of his paint set and coloring sheets and did himself some good old fashion skirt chasing, like you and me used to do!"

_

* * *

  
_

"They did really well, didn't they, Dad?" Donnie asked, hopping off the bed, and picking up one of his bags as Les snapped the last suitcase shut.

"Yeah, they did. I'm really looking forward to seeing them, to find out how their families are."

Donnie rolled his eyes a little, but Les chuckled, knowing it was only because he was too young to completely understand the importance of family. "C'mon, munchkin – pick another face, let's see what I can tell you."

Les led Donnie down the stairs, lugging one suitcase with him as Donnie carried a bag across his back. Setting the suitcase down, Les led Donnie into the living room to sit, noting that they still had a some time before they had to leave.

"How about this one, dad?" he asked, laying his finger across the form of a boy beside his Uncle Dave. Les peered over, and chuckled.

"Heh. Now, you should know that face," he said, shaking his head at the confusion on his son's face. "I believe you see this face nearly every day when you go to school...."


	5. Boots: Mr Conductor

**Author's Note: My apologies for the delay. To make up for it, here are three new chapters. Hope you enjoy them. Also, please be patient, my co-writer has begun classes again and on top of homework she has regular work to do so her time for writing is rather limited...plus I've begun seriously questing ways to go back to school myself; though as I have a part-time job and no life outside of that job, my time for writing isn't nearly as limited so. Yeah. Anyways, enjoy!**

* * *

5. Boots: Mr. Conductor

Trolleys had come a long way from the ones Clement McAleenan remembered as a child. When he was a boy, the trolleys that rolled down the dirt and cobblestone streets of Manhattan had been small, stocky, and pulled by a pair of draft horses. They'd been a sight to see actually and to Clement, the city just wouldn't be the same without them.

He'd been there when the trolley workers went on strike in the summer of 1899; it had been what sparked the idea for the newsboys to form their own strike. Furious that the millionaire newspaper owners would rather rob from the poor boys who could hardly afford the nickel rent at their boardinghouse than dip into their own deep pockets to make a profit, the newsies had taken matters into their own hands, just as the trolley workers had! They stood up for themselves and anyone who dared to work and not go on strike, well, Clement well remembered what happened to those unlucky few.

He'd never been lucky enough to afford the fare to ride on one of those trolleys and anytime he tried to sneak aboard, he'd been promptly booted off again. Some would jokingly say that was how he earned his nickname of "Boots", and not because of his ebony boot colored skin or that he'd previously been a shoe-shine boy. Clement had watched through the years as the trolley progressed like the rest of the city. Horse and carriages, along with a person's ability to walk on their own two feet it seemed, had been replaced by the smelly, noisy and clunky automobile. Trading in the horse for tracks and electricity, the open air trolley car soon became enclosed to protect its passengers from the elements. Though their appearance had changed, Clement still loved them just the same.

Perhaps that was why when he'd outgrown being a newsie, the one everyone knew as Boots, did everything he could think of to become a trolley conductor. After many years of rejections due to one thing or another, his persistence had paid off. Given a small route in a, then, slummy area, Clement "Boots" McAleenan was finally allowed to ride the trolley. True his days as a conductor had been difficult, being one of the very few black conductors in the union didn't help matters any. Many times his employer offered him a route in Harlem or an area where he'd be "more comfortable". Each time, Clement had smiled, shook his head and respectfully declined. He enjoyed the route he had in Greenwich Village. In the twenty-years he'd been working there, he still had the same route he started with: Houston St to Ave of the Americas to W 23rd St. Pick-up/drop off at corner where 5th and Broadway meet. 5th Ave to Washington Square North to MacDougal Pl back to Houston St for a pick-up/drop-off where Houston meets Ave of the Americas and Bedford St.

It wasn't a large route compared to some, but it was his route and he wouldn't have traded it for the world. He liked the area, the people who quickly became regular faces for him, and despite it all, he never failed to find something new along the way. Most importantly though, he liked being the one who made sure his childhood friends children made it to and from school on time.

Neither he nor Les had recognized each other the very first time Les had boarded his trolley, a seven-year-old Lilly clasping one hand while a six-year-old Richard clasped the other, both in their very best clothes on their way to their first day at the new school. No school stops had originally been scheduled for Clements route, but as a man who hadn't been permitted a decent education and had regretted it most of his life, he was not about to simply deny the pair a stop at their school, especially not when his route went right outside it. It was after Les had climbed back onto the semi-empty trolley and sat down behind Clement that he realized who it was. Though time had caught up to both, the brown eyes of the wounded little boy betrayed by his idol during the strike all those years ago gave him away instantly.

"_Boots? Is it really you?"_

"_Course it's really me! Is it really __you__ though? All growed up with kids of yer own? It don't seem possible!"_

_Les laughed merrily as he smiled brightly and nodded, wisps of slicked brown hairs falling from their place to hang in front of his eyes. Brushing them back into place, he gave a sheepish shrug. "Well, actually I have another one of the way. So I suppose it's a good thing I got told to make sure they made it to school alright today while Elizabeth rests. Otherwise you'd be taking my kids to school every day and never would have known it."_

"_Ain't dat da truth! I wonder who else lives 'round dis way still dat I ain't found yet." Boots smiled and shook his head as he paused to let a few people off before continuing on. Glancing back over his shoulder, he looked his old-time friend over and nodded._

"_Ya been doin' good for yourself, kid. Real good. One of dese days yer gonna hafta come have dinner with me an' my family. Deys heard all about all of ya's."_

"_Thanks, I'd like that. Oh, and from what I hear Snoddy and Dutchy are the only ones left in the area. Everyone else has…moved off."_

_Tsking and shaking his head sadly, Boots let out a low whistle as he silently wondered what each of his friends where doing and if they were doing as well off as Les seemed to be. Stopping at his last scheduled stop at 5__th__, Broadway and 23__rd__ St to pick up and drop off different passengers, Les stood to leave, needing to catch another trolley that would drop him off closer to the Courthouse._

"_One of dese days, Les, we all gotta get together and catch up. All us newsies, ya know? Have our own little rally get-together." Boots extended his hand to shake as Les moved towards the door._

_Smiling, he nodded in agreement. "Absolutely. It was good seeing you again, Boots."_

"_You too, kid."_

From that day on Clement had made sure that Les' kids were taken where they needed to go and never once had to pay the fare. In fact, no one in his family was ever charged to ride. Sure he wasn't supposed to do that, not even for his own family, but given how often those kids would have to ride—especially when the weather was bad—he just couldn't bring himself to charge them. Not that they couldn't afford it, he was certain they could given their general attire and where their school was located, he didn't want to make the children of a fellow newsie pay for something as useless as a trolley ride when their dimes and quarters could go to more important things like jacks or pieces of hard candy.

Though he'd hardly gotten to see much of Les after that day, the few times when the other man would ride with his children to school simply to chat with Boots had always meant so much to him. It was through Les that he'd learned what some of the others had been up to, Spot being arrested on murder charges (despite all Les had tried to have the charges dismissed on pleas of self-defense), Snitch being killed during The Great War, even about Mush and Blink opening their own department store. Had it not been for Les, Boots was sure he never would have found out about the upcoming event in California.

It had taken nearly nine years, but finally his wish of having his entire group of old friends meet up for a reunion had come true.

Looking out of his kitchen window as he sipped his morning cup of coffee, Boots smiled to himself as he watched the sun rise up over the city. It wasn't until he'd started work with the trolley line that he'd become more of a morning person than he used to be. Setting the cup down, he nodded out the window in silent though, "One more day…just one more day an' I'm on my way ta see ya's fellas."

* * *

Les peered around the trolley as he waited for Donnie to pick another face from the photograph. He held his bag between his feet, the strap looped around one leg to ensure it wouldn't slide away from him, while he held Donnie's bag in his lap. The young boy sat beside his father, smiling and nodding his head.

"I guess I do know that face...he just...looks younger here..." Donnie said, shrugging before leaning in and examining the photograph, a thoughtful expression on his face as he chewed at his index finger.

Laughing, Les moved one hand, and rubbed his son's head, shaking his own. "Well, kiddo, we all got older - I don't look like this anymore," he pointed out, motioning to himself in the photograph. Donnie snickered, opening his mouth to reply, but shook his head, thinking better of it. "Good idea - who do you wanna hear about next?" he asked, moving to see the picture, too. Donnie sat quietly, thinking, for another moment, before removing his finger from his mouth, wiping it on his slacks - which resulted in a "look" from his father - before pointing to another face. Les leaned down to see who was pointing at, gently removing Donnie's hand from the photograph. It was a single head and shoulders, the rest of the body tucked away as he stood in the back row. Unable to help himself, Les smiled, and nodded his head, looking at Donnie.

"This one....he did _incredibly_ well for himself, Donnie. I do hafta tell ya, if you're gonna pick any one of these as a role model that _isn't_ me...choose him."


	6. Snoddy: A Different Kind of Street Rat

6. Snoddy: A Different Kind of Street Rat

He'd made the trip thousands of times, hundreds upon thousands of times, actually. Ever since he was a child it was the district he sold the most in. It wasn't all that far from the Distribution Center or the Lodging House, so to walk from there to the Financial District was never a big thing for him. Though the route had since changed from his childhood memories, the destination was always the same; 20 Broad St, home of the New York Stock Exchange. Sure it's name and even its location had changed throughout time, but the buzz and excitement of men talking about the rise and fall of this stock or that share never faltered. It was the heartbeat of the city to him, and never would he walk back to the Lodging House with left over papers.

Always good with money and figures, it only seemed logical for him to take up a small runner job for a broker when he'd become too old to support himself selling papers. It hadn't been exactly what he'd been hoping for, but it at least got his foot inside the door. With the proper guidance and tutoring, Nathanial Morrison—long ago dropping his childish nickname of Snoddy—soon found himself rising from being a small errand runner onto the trading floor where his first week down made himself more money than some of the "old timers" made in a month. Though he'd always been friendly and polite to his fellow traders and brokers, he could feel their resentment towards the twenty-four-year-old Wall Street whiz kid.

Twenty-four-years old and making more money than he'd ever dreamed of, could he have ever of been so young and wide-eyed? It seemed like a hundred years ago to the forty-eight-year old now. For half his life he'd been learning the trade and making his own small fortune, drifting further and further from his humble and meager beginnings on Duane St. From what he had remembered of his life before the Newsboys Lodging House on Duane Street, Nathanial seemed to recall having a mother who was a beautiful as any young starlet (at least that's what he always told himself, whether or not she really was, he didn't remember) and a handsome father who was a successful businessman. He could somewhat remember a teacher instructing him on how to read and write, do his arithmetic and even taught him a bit of Latin; those days seemed as faded and distant as a ship on the hazy morning horizon. His life at the Lodging House was a bit clearer in his memory. Nights of staying up to play cards, shoot dice, or swap stories of their days would gently come back to him if he sat still in silence long enough.

The walk from his home on Albany Street to Broad Street was always the perfect time to think back on his teenage years. Many times he'd swear he could hear Skittery hollering out a phony headline and then make up some excuse about that paper being a one-in-a-million misprint should he get caught in the act or see Crutchy hobbling down the street, his ever present goofy smile plastered on his face as he nodded to the passing women and generous businessmen who would buy papers from him. Once he thought for sure he'd seen Dutchy, still just as lanky and blond as he'd ever been, ducking into a bank on Broadway though quickly dismissed it as a case of mistaken identity. That still didn't change the fact that, though he was quite successful in his life and never had to scrape together whatever he could in order to get a meal anymore, he still longed for the days when life was simpler and he had the friends and companionship he'd once had then.

The stiffs Nathanial worked with only ever wanted to talk business. Even the nights they'd slip away to one of the many speakeasies in town for a steak dinner and drink, the prices, rise, fall and new stocks were all they talked about. Many times he'd try to change the subject to something more interesting or even personal only to be ignored or stared at as if he'd suddenly grown a second head. It was difficult to reminisce with people who wanted to know nothing about their co-workers lives. He'd tried a number of times to get hold of his old friends from his selling days, but having only ever known them by their nicknames—with the exception of a sparse group—it was harder than he'd ever expected. There were a couple of times he was supposed to get together with Les, who he was shocked to discover had become a lawyer—the wide-eyed little boy who'd followed Cowboy around like a lost puppy and had an endless supply of innocence had become one of the best lawyers in town, when had that happened?—only to have their plans canceled due to one thing or another.

It was funny to him how without even noticing, everything had changed around him. Even stranger how he had changed from being the freckled face jovial teen he'd once been to the slick and aged broker he'd become. It was as if he'd gone to bed one thing and awoke the next morning to find he'd overnight grown gray hairs, wrinkled in the face a bit, and no longer had the ability to pull a headline out of thin air. The city had changed, buildings that had been there as long as he could remember were suddenly gone—torn down to make room for bigger and better towers of power—even entire streets were torn up, removed completely from the map or even just moved. Places that had once been green with grass and trees were now new streets, tenements, and offices. Even the newsies on the street corners had changed, the papers they sold for were different, their styles and calls were like the very city they resided in—never the same for very long.

In the blink of an eye, Nathanial had gone from being Snoddy the orphaned, homeless newsie to being Nathanial Morrison the successful stock broker who had a home on Albany Street bigger than he knew what to do with, a wife, two daughters and three sons, even a dog, cat, and fish! What was more surprising to him though was the interest his children had in what he'd once been, his youngest son even going so far as to take up a job as a newsie after school. Never had he thought his life on the streets growing up would become such an interesting tale to anyone that they'd have him tell stories about the Great Newsie Strike of 1899 over again so many times that _they_ would correct _him_ should he miss something. More times than not, Mary, Michael, Dennis and Susan, Patrick and Harold would go to bed with visions of torn and shredded newspapers falling to the ground like giant snowflakes or "the good guys" overcoming the powerful evil tyrant to become heroes of the day. To his children, the tales of their father being a part of such a historical event was far more exciting than any of Peter Pan's in Neverland or of Tom Sawyer's floating down the Mighty Mississippi. Of course he'd embellish the stories a bit, just enough to make them exciting or adventurous, but for the most part, he'd done what he could to stick to facts. It had been while he was still a newsie that the much younger Snoddy had met his future wife—though they both remember meeting, both remember a far different story than the other as is generally the case in a marriage.

The story he would tell of their meeting was far more enticing than that the one their mother would tell (which she claimed was the truth though he swore she was being modest). As he would tell they had met one day late in the summer in Battery Park. He was seventeen at the time, she only fifteen but just as elegant and attractive as a grown sophisticated woman. He had finished selling for the day hours earlier and instead of going back to the stuffy hot old Lodging House, he'd decided to sit in the shade at Battery Park and watch the ships go drifting by. Alana, his wife, had been out walking near the embankments, probably daydreaming of meeting her one-true-love in some romantic way Snoddy would claim in his own playful teasing way, when he first saw her. Struck by her dark Italian complexion, and shining brown eyes, Snoddy had leapt from his place under the shade tree and took off after her in hopes of stealing even just a minute of her time to hear her voice. As he got closer, he paused for just a moment to pick up the lacy white handkerchief she'd idly dropped. When he looked back up and held it out to call to her, he saw her foot step just one inch too far to her left and go tumbling into the water. Racing to her aide, he'd wasted no time in diving in after her. Pulling her back onto dry land and making sure she was alright, he'd smiled sheepishly in his own slightly shy way before holding the now soaked handkerchief out to her. _"You dropped this. It's uh…it's a little wet but…"_

It would be another year and a half before he would ever see her again after that first awkward meeting—a meeting in which no names were exchanged and she'd promptly slapped him for "getting fresh" with her in his attempt to pull her from the water. Many times after work, even now, Nathanial would drift back to Battery Park and walk down that little stretch—sometimes even bringing one of his children, _"This is the very spot I saved your mother's life and she gave me a reward I'd never forget," _he would tell them.

"Aftahnoon, Mr. Morrison! Wha'da ya hear, wha'da ya say?!"

The voice calling out to him from the corner of Greenwich and Rector brought Nathanial out of his thoughts, scattered as they may be, and settled him back down on the busy evening streets. Smiling and digging into his pocket for a coin, he crossed the street and approached the teenage boy holding a stack of papers. The boy in many ways reminded him of himself at that age and for years had caused him to buy strictly from that single newsboy.

"I think it's a little late to be sayin' afternoon, Jolt, evenin' is more like it."

"Eh, evenin's aftah noon…so aftahnoon still woiks. Good headline tanight, Mr. Morrison! Al Capone's gang of bootleggers is at it again. Shot up a whole slew of coppah's in Chicago, dey t'ink he might be comin' out this way." Jolt rattled anxiously as he held the paper out to him as Nathanial pulled a quarter from his pocket to place in the teen's hand.

"Really? Hm…oh, keep the change, at least help buy your papes tomorrow if nothing else."

"T'anks Mr. Morrison. I keep fergettin' you know what it's like sellin' dese t'ings, even with a good headline it can be a pain in my rear-end." Jolt shook his red head and sighed as he nudged his glasses back up his freckled nose and looked back at the man he'd come to call his friend.

Laughing and nodding, Nathanial gave a slight smirk. "Yeah, but how many times do I gotta tell you,"

"Headlines don't sell papes; _newsies_ sell papes." They said in unison as Jolt sighed and nodded.

"Yer right, I keep fergettin' dat too. Mr. Hunter keeps tellin' us dat same thing down at da boardin' house. I'm surprised ya don't know 'im; he said he was in da strike back in da day, even got da picture framed and hangin' on da lobby wall."

"Well, there were a lot of us in that strike, Jolt, plus it was far too long ago for me to try and remember everyone who'd been in it. Maybe one of these days you can take me back to your boarding house and I can finally meet him, be able to put a face and maybe a nickname to that name."

"Maybe. He's headin' out west for a few days 'ere soon…next week or somet'ing…gonna go visit some family he said. So maybe once he gets back, ya can meet him."

Pausing as he scanned the paper, Nathanial tilted his head to the side in thought. Odd that the owner of a boarding house should be going out west for a few days the same week he would be traveling to California to visit with all his friends for their "30 Years Since" reunion. Glancing back at the boy, he slowly nodded.

"Alright then. Well, I better get home. If you see Harold tell him not to stay out too late, I know you fella's like to razz him about it but, his mother really does worry herself and the rest of us crazy when he stays out late."

"Soir t'ing, Mr. Morrison. Have a good trip! Bring me back a pretty starlet, eh?"

Laughing, Nathanial nodded. "I'll do my best. Goodnight, Jolt."

* * *

Donnie grinned up at his father as they reached their train.

"Wall Street? Really? Wow! Is he goin' to California too?" Donnie asked excitedly. Les chuckled, hooking his hand around Donnie's shoulders to keep tabs on him as the two boarded the train, and took their seats near the window.

"That's the word. Almost all of these guys are gonna be there...or, you know, so I've been told," he replied, nodding his head. A look passed over Les' face of hopefulness and excitement, at the idea of seeing most of his friends for the first time in many years. Donnie moved a little in his seat, putting his arm around Les' back to give him a hug, making Les smile and return the hug, not noticing the gentleman as he approached and took a seat across from the father and son.

"Now this would be perfect for a picture." Les jumped, turning to face the voice, before laughing, and moving his arm out to shake the man's hand.

"Hi, Da-..."

"Hi, Uncle Dave!" Donnie exclaimed, hopping off his seat by his father and moving to the seat by his Uncle to give him a hug.

"Heey, Donnie. Hi, Les," he said, smiling at them both as he returned the boy's hug. "Did I interrupt an important father-son conversation?"

"Well, not entirely. He's been picking faces from our picture, and I've been telling him about them..." he replied, reaching down and picking up the picture from the floor. Donnie moved back to his seat, taking the clipping from his father, as Dave nodded thoughtfully. Glancing at the frame, a slight chuckle escaped his lips as he looked back to his brother and young nephew.

"Speaking of that paper, you are never going to believe what happened to me a couple weeks ago..."


	7. David: Still the Walking Mouth

7. Dave: Still the Walking Mouth

"Now can anyone tell me the difference between a Major Historical Event and a Minor Historical Event? Yes, Tony."

"A Major one is an event that effected lots of people and a minor one is an event that changed the history for only a few?"

"That's a good way of putting it, yes. Can you give me an example of both?"

"Uhm…for major it could be…like anything that made it into our history books."

"Such as?"

"Uhm…the Civil War, Revolutionary War, Columbus sailing to America."

"Very good, now how about for a minor event?"

Silence fell over the classroom as Mr. David Jacobs looked out over the faces of his fifth grade students. Quirking an eyebrow as he slowly moved from his place against the windows back to lean back on his desk, David was far from the strict schoolmasters he'd had growing up. He'd learned a long time ago that children were not going to trust or respect an adult who thought the kids were weak, stupid, and meaningless. Instead, he'd made it his personal quest to show every student to enter his classroom that not all adults thought they were all powerful just because they were adults. Taking note from the way Bryan Denton had treated them all back in the summer of '99, David had been able to reach and gain the respect of his students by doing nothing more than treating them as an equal.

Smiling, he folded his arms over his chest and looked out over the thoughtful faces. Finally, from the back row, a timid hand stretched out into the air. Carolina Delancey, the quietest and most troubled of all his students. Eyebrows rising, David stood up straight again and nodded.

"Carolina, yes."

"The Newsie Strike of 1899?"

Smiling from ear to ear, David nodded and moved to start walking down the aisles of seats again. "The Strike, very good. Now why would that be considered a minor historical event?"

"She only said dat cuz her old man was a thug durin' it."

"Yeah! Didn't her old man wipe the ground with you, Mr. Jacobs?"

"Tony, Jeffery, that's enough. Now does anyone know why that would be a minor historical event?"

Again, silence. Sighing, Dave patted Carolina's shoulder and offered her an understanding smile. True her father Oscar and his brother Morris had done their best to beat the life out of him, but it was no reason to hold a grudge towards the innocent little girl. She had nothing to do with it, wasn't even a glint in Oscar's eye at the time, the only fault she had was one she had no control over and that would be having been born to him and having his last name. The daughter of a gangster was not an easy thing to be.

"The Newsies Strike of 1899 is historical because, it was a children's strike—kids just about your age and a little older—who saw that they were being treated unfairly and decided to do something about it. Had it not been for those boys and girls, those of you who sell papers after school would probably still have to eat what you didn't sell. Now how many of you would like that? You bought a hundred papes at what had just the night before been fifty-cents per hundred and now was **sixty-cents** per hundred and then on top of all that, you only sold about half of those hundred papers. You couldn't take them back to the Distribution Center and sell them back like you can now. You would be stuck with them until you either sold them or maybe stumbled upon another newsie who was having a streak and needed more papers and you were able to sell them off to the other newsie. Those boys and girls changed history, even if it had only been for the newsies of New York City and the boroughs."

"So, wait…wouldn't that make it a **major** historical event?"

Laughing lightly as he moved back to his desk, David shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. You see, not many people know of the strike because they're afraid if they tell their children about it, you'll all start to strike against everything. Most adults, as you well know, are terrified of what kind of power you kids hold. Granted, I'm sorry to say you kids don't have near the amount of power you once had back when I was still growing up, but you still have enough power to make a difference around here."

Glancing to the clock, David sighed softly before pulling a bag of hard butterscotch candies from his desk drawer. Moving down each row of desks, he allowed his students to each have one of the bitter-sweet treats.

"Well class, we only have a few minutes left of this year. I want to let you all know that you've been a wonderful class and I have learned a lot from you—as I hope you've learned at least **something** from me and from each other. For those of you who are going on to higher levels, I wish you all the luck, and for those of you thinking of ending your education now," David paused to pluck the cabbie hat off a boy in the back row. Placing it in the boys hand and shaking his head, he continued, "I hope you reconsider. An education is the most valuable trade you could ever want. With an education you can become anything you want to be. A teacher, a journalist, a politician, a doctor, even gangsters have to have a least an education of some form."

Carolina gave a small smile and blushed softly as she reached in for a piece of candy before looking back down at her desk. Smiling and moving on to the next student, Dave looked at the clock once more.

"Mr. Jacobs? What you gonna do this summer? Ya gonna go start anymore strikes?"

"No, Tony. I'm going out to California for a few days in a couple of weeks. It was exactly thirty years ago this summer that my fellow newsies and I won our strike. So, all of us that are able to go are going out there for a reunion and to catch up. It's been far too long since we last all were together."

As the last student reached into the bag for a treat, the shrill ring of the bell sounded off the walls, sending the anxious class into a frenzy of cheers and shouts. Hordes of children rushed from their seats and into the halls, barely thinking enough to call a "Have a nice summer" back over their shoulders to their teachers. Dave remembered those days all too well.

Papers and primers littered the floor, pencils and crayons scattered in every direction as he moved to sit back down at his desk. Dave knew all too well that many of the students he'd taught throughout the years never made it past the fifth grade and instead would go out into the work force. True, different laws had been passed that regulated how much time a child could spend working, but still nothing was in place that enforced all children to attend school through high school.

Reaching into his bottom desk drawer, he removed the small charred framed picture that once hung on the wall by the blackboard. Earlier that year, while the school slept, a fire had broken out in the classroom next to his, all but completely wiping out the surrounding rooms. When David and his class had returned the next morning, they found the charred remains of their classroom scattered across the front lawn among the remains of the two other classrooms. Sitting on what was left of his desk, had been that frame with what was left of his cherished newspaper. That paper was all he had left to remember a number of his friends by, now even that was gone.

"Excuse me, Mr. Jacobs?"

Looking up from the paper, David was rather shocked to see Carolina standing before him. It was hard to believe that such a shy, sweet little girl could be the daughter of one of New York's most notorious gangsters. Because of her family's name, Carolina had been heckled and tormented most of her life by the children of her father's rivals and feared by everyone else.

"Carolina, what are you still doing here?"

"My uhm…my dad wanted me to give you this. He figured you wouldn't accept it if he tried to give it to you, so he sent it with me." Holding a thin, wrapped object out to him, Carolina offered a rare tiny smile.

"You're father sent something…for me? Uhm…well, thank you. And thank him for me."

Smiling a bit more and nodding, the girl with bouncy blond curls like her mother turned and ran from the room. Watching her bolt from his classroom as he held the somewhat weighty object in his hand did little to boost his confidence in what Oscar Delancey could have sent to him. Gulping back his fear, Dave slowly opened the wrapping. What he found inside dumbfounded him beyond all belief.

"**Davy,**

**Lina told me what happened to your classroom earlier this year. For whatever reason you seem to be the only teacher she has ever spoken highly of, and to me, that's enough to send some kind of a thank you to. Don't go thinkin' this means I like you though, cuz I don't. I just felt you should be thanked for helping my little girl out when no other teachers would. Don't ask where I found this. No one should be without a picture of their family…no matter how messed up their family was. **

**-Oscar"**

Setting the chicken scratch letter off to the side, Dave pulled a fresh looking and newly framed copy of his beloved newspaper. Staring at it for a minute, he carefully set it down before leaping from his seat and running to the window. Glancing out onto the front lawn, he watched as a man dressed in a fine black suit emerged from a car and moved to scoop Carolina up into a hug. Dave watched as the girl rattled on and motioned up towards her second story class window and smiled brightly. The man in the black suit set the girl back down onto the ground before opening the door to the shiny black car for her. Closing it, Oscar Delancey—self proclaimed king of the New York streets—looked up at where Dave still stood dumbfounded and gave a subtle nod.

* * *

Les blinked at his brother in slight disbelief. It was hard to imagine Oscar Delancey doing _anything_ for a former newsie, let alone anything _nice_! "Must be dying," he muttered, shaking his head as he glanced down at the confused face of the boy next to him. Reaching out to ruffle his hair, Les laughed lightly at his son. "Oscar worked for his Uncle Wiesel at the Distribution Center, he also was nothing more than a common thug who tried to beat up on every newsie who crossed him."

Forming a silent "Oh", Donnie nodded and looked back at his Uncle David. "So, how come he gave you the picture then if he didn't like you guys?"

"I'm still not sure."

"Well, I had a run in with him myself, actually. After Spot's trial. He came up to _thank me_ for it." Les shook his head again as he glanced back at the picture.

Knitting his eyebrows together, Donnie looked to his Uncle then back to his father. "But, I thought you were Spot's lawyer? How come he'd come up to thank you?"

David quirked an eyebrow as he looked to his younger brother. He remembered that trial like it was yesterday; it had been Les' first big case after graduating from law school and was the first time he realized the good guy didn't always win. Sighing heavily, Les ran a hand down his face. "I did defend Spot. The only thing I can think of for why Oscar would come up and thank me is because Spot killed his brother Morris in a bar fight a few years after," trailing off, he shook his head and glanced out the window, not wanting to think about why Spot had followed through with his threat.

Confused and looking for answers, Donnie looked to the sad face of his uncle in hopes of him shining some light on the situation. Offering him a half-hearted smile, Dave pointed down to the overly enthusiastic face of the ten-year-old boy just up and to the left of Boots. "Snipes never did know how to keep himself out of trouble."


	8. Snipeshooter: Tears in Heaven

8. Snipeshooter: Tears in Heaven

**New York City, April 24****th****, 1912**

Ernst Roeber Saloon sat on the corner of 6th Ave and 13th Street. "Moerlein's Celebrated" and "Cincinnati Lager Beer" wrapped around the overhang leading to the door. From the outside, it appeared to be a well cared for and high class Saloon, and for the most part it was—during the day time. Like so many other places though, when the sun set the world and its creatures began to take on a whole new shape and side, and though it may have looked upscale, to step inside its large ornate doors after sundown, one would find a wholly different story.

Decorated in the finest dark woods and marble counter top, with shining brass rails and trim, the Ernst Roeber Saloon was home to many of the up-and-coming lowlifes of the time. The dark fans that hung from the ceiling circulated the foul smoke-filled air, forming halos around light fixtures and patrons. The sounds of bottles and glasses clanging together, boisterous voices carrying on in song and conversation, and more often than not laughter could be heard from the streets. Of course, that didn't mean the bar was completely without its trouble makers. On more than a rare occasion the police would have to come in to break up a fight or haul a drunkard away.

It had been raining most of the week, turning the dusty streets into mud holes and giant puddles; it was the type of weather that drove nearly everyone batty and put people on edge. The rain fell in shifts, lightly and sparse at first, then hard and fast for a time before letting up just long enough for people to think it was finally over before starting its cycle all over again. Lightening would streak across the dark sky, bouncing off of the tall metal rods protruding from the ever increasing number of skyscrapers the city was giving birth to. The rain and dangerous weather did little to detour the crowds from gathering outside of Ernst Roeber's Saloon that night though.

A cry had shouted out only moments before the shots had been heard. Someone died that night.

The police had arrived as quickly as they could when they received word of yet another fight breaking out at 499 6th Ave. By the time the first respondents arrived, the body of the twenty-three-year-old man had already begun to cool on the dark mahogany wood floor, a dark crimson puddle surrounding him. His blue eyes were wide, his jaw slacked just slightly while the unruly mop of curly red/brown hair was beginning to absorb the blood surrounding his head and clump together. It was hard to tell what color the man's shirt had been, though it was plain to see where the fatal shot had been dealt.

Inside and around the saloon, women cried as men spoke in hushed tones to each other, stealing glances off in the direction of the man who'd done the killing. An average sized man but with a giant sized snarl on his face as he glared down at the body on the ground. No one would confront him, as he would expect them not to. His black bowler hat tilted to the side, his heartless brown eyes stared out from the shadows, daring the patrons to point their fingers in his direction when asked if they'd seen the killer.

"A'right, move along folks. Dere's nothin' ta see 'ere, move along home, folks."

"That boy was murdered in cold blood!"

"Yes, ma'am, we're goin' do everyt'ing we can ta get ta da bottom of dis, t'ank you. Move along home now."

Women and children shook their heads and wiped at their eyes as they were ushered away from the gruesome scene. The men from inside the building were lined against the outside windows; some perched on the shoe-shine benches as they awaited their turn for questioning. Though most had seen what had happened, and all had certainly heard the altercation, few were willing to divulge any details.

"The kid should have kept his mouth shut. He'd been warned." One man said as he shook his head sadly, not wanting to release any other information that might lead to his own demise.

"Kept braggin' 'bout some job he'd din dis aftahnoon. I din't much more din dat, I'm 'fraid." Another offered as he puffed his pipe and glanced back at the lifeless body on the floor. "Poor boy…poor, poor boy."

"Yeah, I saw da whole t'ing! Dat kid kept runnin' his mouth 'bout a job he pulled off, some bank job…prob'ly robbed it or somet'ing. Anyways, dis big dark guy kept tellin' him ta shut his mouth or else he's gonna get it. Da kid didn't listen though. Just kept yakkin' an' yakkin'. Dat's when da big dark guy shot him. Right in da back! Kid nevah saw it comin'."

Inside the bar, more officers did their best to collect answers and find out what exactly had happened. The bartender did his best to play dumb, knowing he was being watched by the mysterious "dark man".

The rain had let up slightly at least, allowing the officers to clear a way to bring in the coroners to take the young man's body away. No one in the bar could offer the police a name for the boy, claiming they'd seen him only a few times but never once heard a name. It wasn't until a single officer was able to get a good look at him that a name could be produced.

Sighing heavily, the officer reached out and carefully closed the young man's haunting blue eyes, still gripped in surprise and fear. Gulping, the policeman looked to the doctor who had been called in. "His name's Richard…Richard Harris. Don't bother tryin' ta reach any family…he ain't got none."

"Are you certain, sir?"

"Positive. I knew dis kid when he was just a pipsqueak. I know for a fact he ain't got any family."

"If you say so, Sergeant Conlon. Alright, let's get him out of here."

Watching as the man's body was loaded onto the wagon and carried off to the hospital for processing, Sgt. Conlon glared off in the direction of the dark man. Clenching his jaw and tightening his fist around the handle of his pistol, the hot-blooded Irishman stormed up to him, cornering him out of the line of hearing from everyone else.

"You son-o'-a-bitch. Ya killed Snipeshooter. Whad dat kid evah do ta you, huh? I oughta gun ya down right here, right now ya worthless piece o' shit."

"Watch it, Conlon…I took one of ya damn newsies down, I'll do it again."

"Ya really t'ink ya scare me, Morris? I beat you thugs once before an' I _will_ do it again. You an' yer brother an' yer little 'gang' o' criminals are da reason I joined da police force. I'm goin' be smiling on da sidelines when you fry in dat hot seat."

An evil smirk crept on Morris Delancey's face as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. "Snipes deserved what he got. Somebody shoulda told him a long time ago ta keep his damned mouth shut the first time he got told ta. 'Sides…you ain't got a witness or suspect. Ya got nothin' on me. I ain't gonna be fryin' any time soon, Spot."

Narrowing his eyes and taking a step closer as the rain began to splatter down upon them again, like tears from the heavens, Spot felt his blood boil over beneath the dark blue uniform. "Den I'd watch my back if I'se you, Morris. Cuz one of dese days, it's gonna be you Doc Edwards is haulin' away, an' I'll be da one smirkin' in da corner."

* * *

Donnie gulped, as he looked at the picture, before looking up at his father and his uncle. After a second, however, a look of confusion showed.

"...Spot was a cop?" he asked, uncertain. Both men chuckled a little, and Les shrugged.

"He _was_, yes. I try to look at what ended up happening as due justice, though I don't think what's going on with Spot is justice for anyone..." He sighed, and shook his head, before looking out the window, letting his thoughts swirl, but his words stop. Dave looked at his brother, then his nephew, before moving a little and waving his fingers at the picture.

"Who's next, kiddo?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a hesitation for Donnie, for he didn't want to upset his father anymore, but when Dave patted his knee and pointed at the photo again, Donnie looked down, and skimmed the faces, before smiling a little, and pointing to the most prominent, right in the middle. When he looked up, he saw his father and his uncle looking at each other, before Dave turned and looked out the window.

"That one," Les began, clearing his throat, "that one...is still a sore subject for your uncle...."


	9. Jack: Wanna Be A Cowboy

9. Jack: Wanna Be a Cowboy

"Smitty! Hold on tight now! That stallion's gonna put up one hellofa fight!"

"I got it, boss!"

"Sure ya do, kid…sure ya do." Jack shook his head and smirked as he turned to stare out over the fields surrounding his ranch home. The lush green hay fields just waiting to be plowed and baled, trees the size of which he'd never seen back in New York, and mountains so picturesque one would swear they'd just stepped into a painting. Casper, Montana was a far cry from the deserts of Santa Fe, New Mexico, but to Jack "Cowboy" Kelly it had become home.

"Hey boss! Might wanna call it a night; we got a storm movin' in."

Glancing back over his shoulder, Jack raised his eyes to the dark gray clouds rolling in over the fields. Squinting for a moment in thought, he looked back to the expectant faces of his ranch hands and gave the go ahead nod. The storm was still a good half-hour away at least, but with all that had to be done, it would take them all that long-if not a bit longer-to get everything shut down, battened up, and all the animals back into their barns.

"Alright John, get a move on."

All at once the men scattered, each darting off to do their own task to prepare for the oncoming weather change. Moving for his horse, Jack saddled up and rode out into the pasture to round up as many of his head of cattle as he could to herd back to their pen for the night. The ones he couldn't find he left for nature to deal with. It was a hard way of life and a cruel way to look at things, but no one said life was easy or kind.

"_See that? Santa Fe, New Mexico. Soon as dey find da right ranch, dey're gonna send for me."  
"Well, then you'll be a real cowboy."  
"That's right."_

All his life Jack had wanted to be a cowboy, to ride the trails and sleep out under the stars, eat meals cooked over a camp fire and sing songs about a girl waiting back home for him. He had tried to live that life in Santa Fe for a time back in the very early years of the new century only to find it was nothing like he had dreamed it would be. In New Mexico and Arizona, there was nothing romantic or heroic about being a true cowboy, in those states cowboys were feared, vicious and ruthless killers who would stop at nothing to get their way. Jack had seen men gun down in the street for nothing more than saying something another man didn't like. The first and only friend he had made while in Santa Fe had been shot dead where he stood just because he wouldn't give a cowboy what he wanted-because he defended Jack, his land, and himself.

That had been enough for the younger Jack. Packing his things and riding out of town, the former leader of the Manhattan Newsies and strike leader rode until he thought he couldn't ride any further. He hadn't expected to wind up in Montana in the dead of winter, it just seemed to have happened that way. Cold, sick and penniless, he had managed to find shelter in the home of Walter M. Bane, the wealthiest rancher in the county. It had been Mr. Bane who set "Cowboy" Kelly to work as a hired hand, teaching him the value of an honest day's work and what it meant to put your blood, sweat, and tears into your job. Bane even helped Jack to finance his own ranch when the time came for him to move on. Had it not been for that man, the newsies beloved leader never would have made it through his first winter in the cold frozen Montana hills.

Riding back to his two story mansion of a log cabin home, Jack herded his cattle into their pen before motioning for one of his own hired hands to close the gate on them and head for the house. It had taken him nearly two years and more money than he could afford at the time to build the six bedroom, two bathroom house seventeen years prior; it had seemed an impossible task at the time but with the help of some new friends and Mr. Bane it was finally completed just in time for his oldest daughter, Karen to be born. Since then, six other children had been born to him within those walls and three of the six—along with their mother—died there as well.

It had been difficult for Jack to lose three of his children—two fell victim to fevers, the third stillborn—as well as his wife. Martha had died giving birth to their stillborn son five years before due to complications. It had been difficult for the family, especially for young Karen who suddenly found herself in the role of home maker and mother to her three younger siblings. Jack did what he could to try and lighten the load for his eleven year old daughter, though as is the case with many well-meaning fathers, only caused her more trouble and grief.

"_I don't come out and try to work the ranch, do I?!"  
"No, but Kare…"  
"No, I don't! So stay out of the kitchen, out of the wash, and out of my way! It's bad enough I have to try and figure out how to sew Davy's buttons back onto his shirt, and make sure Madison does his homework, not to mention keep an eye on Abigail so she doesn't go wandering out into the horse barn and get hurt! I don't need to worry about you messing things up in here!"_

At the time, Jack had been slightly hurt by his daughter's words; he had after all just been trying to give her a hand so that she wouldn't have quite so much to deal with. Thinking back on it though, he would often laugh at how exasperated she was and how much she sounded and looked like her mother in that moment. Martha Grace had been his entire life for thirteen wonderful years, and there wasn't a day that passed that he didn't think of her and smile.

Everyone had sworn that one day the infamous strike leader was going to marry his long time sweetheart Sarah Jacobs, sister of his best friend and co-leader David, and stay in New York forever. That had not been in Jack's plans however. After seeing Sarah for nearly a year and a half, Jack had somehow found himself backed into a corner being questioned by nearly everyone when he was going to marry the doting young lady. Terrified by the idea of being forced into a commitment he was in no way ready for, the ever running Cowboy had packed his bags and followed through with his dreams to hop a train and head out west, leaving no word or explanation for anyone.

It wasn't until he was well into his twenties that Jack finally came to realize his life was going to be a long and lonely one without someone to spend it with. That was when he met Martha. The daughter of the biggest fancy goods store in Casper, Ms. Grace had no time or want for marriage. Strong headed and stubborn, it had taken Jack nearly two months just to learn her name and another three months before she agreed to go to one dinner with him. His determination and persistence paying off, the two were married within a year.

"Daddy! Dinner's ready! You and the boys get in here out of the rain before you catch your deaths of cold! And make sure you leave those muddy boots on the porch this time! Abby and I just finished cleaning the house! Don't need you lot trackin' your gunk through the place!"

The rain had long ago begun soaking the ground and anything left out in the open when Jack heard the clang of the dinner bell and Karen's call to him. Smiling as he rode his dark-as-night stallion into the barn, he nodded to the men already in there.

"You heard the lady, get in there. Don't worry 'bout that, I'll take care of it. Dave, you and Madison make sure you wash up before you sit down at that table or your sisters are liable to soak ya's for coming to dinner filthy."

Sixteen and fourteen respectfully, Dave and Madison both laughed and nodded as they set their pitchforks down and moved for the barn door behind the three other ranch hands. "Sure thing, Pops. Meet ya in there."

Making sure the horses were settled in for the night, the forty-seven year old father of four ran through the rain for the back porch to his home. There had been a time in his life where he would have been out in the rain, snow, sleet, and wind doing what he could to survive, not able to run for the shelter of a familiar place to get in out of the elements. It almost didn't seem fair to him that his life should be so comfortable now when all his childhood and teen years had been spent in hardships.

Laughter and jovial conversation drifted through the windows and doors as Jack stood on the porch removing his soiled boots and wet over shirt. It always brought a smile to his face hearing a houseful of voices; it was the sounds of his youth drifting back to him once more. To hear and see his home filled with familiar faces and to have them all sit together at his table always made him remember back to the dingy lodging house and all the meals Kloppman—its original proprietor—would make for any boys interested in eating there. More times than he could count, Jack would walk into his kitchen and feel as if he'd suddenly walked into the past to see Pie Eater helping one of the younger boys cut his meager meal into manageable pieces or Bumlets and Dutchy fighting for the last sourdough roll.

"_Hey hey! Two ta one Bumlets gets da roll dis time! Who's bettin'?"  
"I got two cents on Dutchy! He's got a good hold on it."  
"Two cents? I got five on Bumlets, he ain't goin' down without a fight!"  
"No betting at the table. Now you boys, stop that fighting…give me the roll…you each can have half."  
"Aw, Kloppman, c'mon!"  
"That or you all go hungry. Now settle down and eat your dinners."_

Taking his place at the head of the table, Cowboy nodded to the others and smiled to his youngest daughter who sat wedged between her two older brothers. It was definitely nice having a all those people in his home, helping him to take care of the land and animals and also each other, they certainly came in handy when the going got tough.

"Don't forget, Daddy, you're train leaves tomorrow at noon. And Mikhail called again, wanted to make sure you were definitely coming out and to let you know that you were more than welcome to stay at his house. Apparently that's where all the others are going to be staying." Karen said as she passed the dish of potatoes to her right and glanced up to her father.

Sighing, Jack rolled his eyes slightly but nodded. He honestly hadn't wanted to go to the reunion, he hadn't been to any of the others and after what he'd done to David and his family, he wasn't in any big hurry to cross paths with the scorned brother to his ex-girlfriend.

"I still say you're all a bunch of scabbers for saying I'd be there. I have work to do around here."

"Me and the guys can handle it, Pops. I'm sixteen now, ya know, I think it's time you learn to trust me. After all, when you were sixteen you were leading a whole army of fellas into a strike."

"I was seventeen, Dave, and that was entirely different."

"Well, not entirely." Dave muttered as he poked at his dinner with his fork before receiving a smack on the hand and a stern look from his sister.

"We've got it all under control boss. You go out to California and make amends with that pal of yours. Hey, maybe his sister's still single and interested. Do you good to have a warm body to hold on these cold winter nights again."

His cheeks actually warming at the thought, Jack forced a stern look on his face as he caught the snickers and smirks of his children and hired hands. Taking a sip from his coffee cup to hide his mild fluster, he shook his head as he looked back to his workers. "Watch yourself John. Not in front of the little ears."

"You are going to this reunion, Daddy. The ranch isn't going to fall apart without you here for a week. You need to go out there and see them again. You're the one who's always telling us about all the fun times you had with them, all the trouble you all used to get into, and how you wish you could relive those days. Here's your chance. I have your bags all packed and your train ticket is sitting on top of your suitcase. We'll all be here when you get back."

Looking around the table, Cowboy knew he'd been out numbered on the matter. There was to be no fighting it at that point, the decision had been made and while he was none too happy with it, he knew in his heart they were all right. He hadn't even made it back to New York for Snipes funeral, or for Spot's trial; if things kept going the way they were, that reunion in California may be the last time he would see some of the old gang ever again. Giving a defeated sigh, he lowered his eyes to his plate and nodded.

"Alright, I'll go." With a light laugh and smirk, Jack glanced back to the smiling faces before him, "Give the Walking Mouth a chance to give me a good whuppin' after all these years and see what kind of trouble the other bums have gotten themselves into. Lord knows I dug myself in deep havin' you lot to guilt me into everything."

* * *

There was an uncomfortable moment between the adults as they looked at each other, and as Donnie looked up at them. He had heard, once upon a time, of the man who walked off on Aunt Sarah, but he hadn't heard the other side of the story. And, judging by looks on his face, Dave hadn't wanted to hear it either. But Les waited for Dave to heave a sigh and nod his own head before turning and smiling at Donnie.

"Who's next?" he asked, leaning down to see the picture. He hesitated, but looked back down, and pointed to a face near Jack's, on the other side of where his Uncle David was.

Les stared at the picture for a second, before a smile curled upon his lips, and he pointed to a different face. "That one is a joint story," he replied, nodding his head. "These two....they started to share when they became newsies, and it just sort of...stayed that way..."


	10. I & S: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

**Chapter dedicated to Adren who, honestly, is the first person I've met who loves Itey! lol!**

* * *

10. Itey and Swifty: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

The sun beat down on the streets of Washington D.C. as Special Agents Montoya and Smith sat in waiting for their target. Bootleggers ran the city over with illegal moonshine, selling it to the various speakeasies and private clientele—politicians mostly, who felt the laws of prohibition didn't apply to the likes of them. Though it was rare for the bootleggers to do their run in broad daylight, it was easier for the agents of the Bureau of Investigation to keep tabs on their intended targets so that when the time came, they would be there ready to pounce.

It hadn't been easy for the orphan newsboys turned keepers of the peace to rise to the level of standing they were at.

"_What are your names?" _

"_Jeremiah Montoya." Itey answered, a small smile playing on his face. True his first name, as best as he could remember that is, was Jeremiah—Jeremiah what though, he didn't know. Forced to decide on a last name if he was to enter the police academy, he used his newsie life to pick a name out of thin air in hopes that it sounded suitable for him. _

_The gray haired man behind the desk nodded as he wrote the name down before glancing to the teen standing next to Itey. Raising an eyebrow at him, he waited impatiently. "And you? Come along boy, I haven't all day."_

"_My name? My name…right…"_

"_You know your own name, don't you boy?"_

"_Smith! His name's Smith…Matthew Smith, sir." Itey said, glancing to Swifty who looked anything but a Matthew Smith. With his dark hair and drab complexion, one would assume him to be of oriental descent with a far more exotic name to match. Shooting a quick peek at his friend, Swifty looked back to the officer behind the desk in a split second of panic before nodding._

"_Matthew Smith, sir. Every idiot knows his own name." he said, his voice covering the fact that in reality he knew no other name than that of Swifty. _

_Not bothering to even consider questioning it, the man behind the desk wrote it down before handing them each their required attire and sending them on their way._

"This is stupid Swift. He ain't gonna show his face in the middle of the day. You know that, and I know that, so why are we here?"

"Cuz this is where we were told to be. 'Sides, Mary promised to bring us some cool tea and pastries later." Smirking over to his friend and partner, Matthew "Swifty" Smith turned his attention back out the window of their plain black car and watched as people hurried from one place to another.

"Pastries? What kind of pastries? Those chocolate frosted long ones? I can almost taste them now. That girl of yours is one hellofa baker." Itey licked his lips and sat back in his seat as he stared out in front of him, sweat plastering his dark curls to his forehead.

"She didn't say, just said if she happened ta see us out here later, she'd bring us some."

Sitting in silence together, the pair watched as a young boy strolled to the street corner and began shouting out the headlines. In a way it was almost endearing to watch the boy, not much older than twelve or thirteen, out there on the street doing the very same job they had once down many years before in Manhattan. Seeing the newsboys out on their corners hawking headlines always brought back the memories of days gone by for both men.

"Hey Itey, 'member that time we was all out at the South Street Seaport an' it was Dutchy's fourteenth birthday?"

Thinking for a moment, Jeremiah broke into a wide grin as he laughed and nodded. That had been a fun day. "Jack and Skittery tackled him to the ground, 'bout near busted his glasses all ta bits, an' then threw him into the East River. Oh man was he ticked off. Wouldn't talk to nobody 'cept Pie Eater the whole rest of the week."

"Yeah and he had ta sleep up on the roof cuz Kloppman wouldn't let him sleep in his bunk all soppin' wet!"

Both men laughing and smiling as they recalled that day, they each shook their heads and silently wondered to themselves what had ever happened to their old friends. Once they had joined the police academy, many of their former selling mates and companions looked upon them as scabbers; called them every name under the sun and then some for becoming the very thing so many of them ran from every day.

"_Snipes, Boots listen…ya think dis was an easy choice fer us ta make? It wasn't! But what else was we gonna do? Everybody's gotta grow up some time and, well…Dave's off at college, Jack took off, Skitts ain't around no more…it's time for us to move on too."_

"_Ya traitors! I hope some drunk bum comes after ya's and does ya both in!" Snipeshooter had spat, throwing his last newspaper at Itey before leveling Swifty with a cold as ice glare._

"_Watch it, Snipes." Swifty replied, his own dark eyes narrowed into thin slits. Though it hurt him deeply to see his friends so upset at them, it was in his best interest to play it off as nothing and try to pretend to be the self-assured policeman he was training to be._

"_Watch it, or what, Swift? You gonna arrest him? Huh? Beat him till he can't get up no more with dat damned stick of yours? Huh? Ya both make me sick! Get outta 'ere!" Reaching up to give Itey a shove, Boots glared at them both, his anger boiling to the point where he was just itching for a fight with them. _

"_Hey, it ain't like we'se da only ones who are doin' this. Spot's in da academy with us, too ya know."_

"_Den he ain't no friend of ours no more either."_

Glancing at his gold pocket watch, Special Agent Smith sighed heavily. It was hotter than all get out in that stuffy car, and being dressed all in black certainly didn't make matters any better for them. Four hours, that's how long they'd been sitting there, waiting for their prey to show himself; four hours and nothing to show for it except sweat soaked shirts and the morning paper. Not to say the time they spent sitting there had been completely wasted though. The pair generally enjoyed having hours of nothing to do on stakeouts, it gave them time to reminisce and give each other the latest updates on their personal lives.

After a few years on the New York City Police Department, both men decided to try their luck at something a bit more exciting and adventurous. It took them both a few tries to get accepted into the Bureau of Investigation, and more than a couple of years before they got assigned "the good cases". Their time spent as newsies proved to be useful when it came to proving they weren't afraid of a little hard work or getting their hands dirty. In no time at all they were promoted to Special Agents and assigned work tracking down bootleggers and racketeers in the city.

It was after they had moved from New York to their shared apartment in Washington D.C. that Itey had met and married his wife, Wilhemina. Together, the couple welcomed two beautiful little girls into the world before adopting a small boy off the streets that Itey had saved from certain death. Swifty on the other hand though, was in no big hurry to settle down—despite the fact he had just celebrated his forty-sixth birthday. Having had a whole string of failed relationships and former girlfriends, he seemed to enjoy the bachelor life and all that it entailed. The way he figured it, if he never got married and should anything happen to him while he was out on a case, then there would be no one at home crying over him and he'd leave no one behind.

"Oh, Willa wanted me to tell you that you're more than welcome to come over for dinner tonight. Figured we could head to the airport together tomorrow morning that way."

Snapping from his thoughts, Swifty looked to Itey and gave a small nod. "Like I'd turn down a meal from Willa? Course I'll be there. Though, I probably won't stay the night. Promised Mary we'd get together 'fore you and I headed for the coast."

"Man, when are you gonna ask that girl to marry you, huh? You're gonna be an old man pretty soon and no self-respecting descent girl is gonna want you then!"

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Swifty looked back out his window to watch the storefronts.

"I already told ya, Itey, I'm not gonna get married. That just ain't something that's in my cards. Marriage is fine for folks like you and e'eryone else, just not for me."

"You don't know what you're missin', Swift. Three square meals a day, a nice, soft, warm body to hold on cold nights, kids smilin' up at you asking you to fix their skates for 'em—"

"Wives naggin' ya askin' when you gonna finish fixing the roof, repairin' the kitchen chairs, if ya remembered to pick up the little one's cough syrup." Quirking an eyebrow and tilting his head to the side, Swifty glanced to his lifelong friend from the corner of his eye. "No thanks, pal. Mary an' I are quite content with what we got."

Shaking his head, Itey frowned and stared out in front of him. The heat from the late afternoon sun rose up off the streets in waves, forming mirages against the brick walls and passing cars. Sighing and doing his best to fan himself with the morning paper, the forty-four year old BOI agent watched as a short man crept out of the shadows and cautiously got into the dark car that sat parked in the alley.

Sitting up straighter and smacking Swifty's arm with the paper, Itey pointed in the direction of the alley.

"There he is. He just got into the car back there."

"You sure it was him?"

"Of course I'm sure it was him! I'd know that ugly mug anywhere."

Starting the plain black squad car and putting it into drive, Swifty waited for their target to go by before pulling out behind him to follow. "Hope you told Willa we might be late to dinner. Who knows where Higgins is headin' this time."

* * *

"They're government agents? That's neat!!" Donnie exclaimed, smiling brightly. Les couldn't resist laughing, and neither could David, both of them glancing at each other as they did.

"They are incredibly complex government agents," Les replied, shaking his head and chuckling before looking at the picture. "Would you like me to pick the next one?" he asked. Donnie looked up at his father, then down at the picture, and then back up, nodding his head. Les smiled.

"Okay. And I know exactly who's next," he said, glancing at his brother before tapping on another face. "This man is on the other side of the law than Itey and Swifty...."


	11. Racetrack: Gangster's Paradise

11. Racetrack: Gangster's Paradise

Did he know they had been out there all morning and all afternoon, waiting and watching for him to make his move? Of course he did. It didn't matter one penny to him though. He knew once he walked out that door and stepped into that brand spanking new 1929 Ford Sedan Delivery truck, they'd be on his tale like bees on honey. That, of course, was why he did what he did.

Having made sure his bets had been placed and his supply of hooch and moonshine stashed safely in the compartments of that stylish truck, Joseph "Racetrack" Higgins glanced to his age-old gold pocket watch. Quarter past three, almost time to move. All around him men in three piece pinstripe suits oversaw their 'help' as they hide the bottles of precious whiskey underneath straw packed cartons of eggs. It wasn't the most fool-proof of plans, but then again, it didn't have to be. All it needed to do was make people think it was just a simple shipment of farm goods heading to market and not raise too many questions in the process.

Looking back out the dingy window and out to the car parked across the street, Race smirked as he puffed on his Cuban cigar. It wasn't the perfect life so many of his friends had imagined their lives would be once they grew up and got off the streets of New York, but he at least wasn't going hungry anymore due to bad bets—in fact, his betting skills had greatly improved since his days as a street rat. Very rarely would he lose a bet, and the few times he did lose, well…not many lived to tell the tale of his defeat. That wasn't to say that Racetrack had killed anyone, he himself could never bring himself to pull the trigger or fill the cement shoes—he was a man of many things but a killer he wasn't; he paid his help a hefty salary and for good reason, they did his dirty work for him—most times without being told or asked to.

A small time gangster, though big time in his own right and mind, Racetrack hadn't strayed far from his newsie roots. Still hustling, gambling, and reading the racing forms every morning, the short Italian took pride in being one of the few to stick as close to his past as possible. In truth, Race had been terrified of outgrowing his baby face and having to become a "respectable, upstanding citizen" like all his friends were trying to be. That life had never been in his cards, not even as a child.

Everyone always found it odd that a very obvious Italian boy had an Irish last name. That hadn't always been the case. Once upon a time, when he was just a baby, his name had legally been Joseph Alfonzo Calavicci. That name sounded so foreign to him now. His parents, fresh off the boat from a small Italian island, had done their best to make a life for their small family. His father had gone to work in an overcrowded factory, doing what he could to bring home a few dollars each week. One night, when baby Joey was only a year or two old, his father had left for work and never returned home. Their landlord was going to throw him and his mother out onto the street for not paying their rent—unless, of course, his mother agreed to marry him.

Shamus Higgins was a big burly Irishman who drank too much and cared too little for his stepson's well being. The only thing Race could truly say his stepfather had been good for, was teaching him how to play cards, gamble, and swindle people. In that right, Race owed everything to his abusive and drunkard father figure. When his mother died shortly after his eighth birthday, Shamus had tossed Race into the street, not even bothering with putting him in an orphanage.

"_Ya no good, filthy, wretched little bastard. Git outta my house! Ye t'ink yer man enough ta take me on, yer man enough ta make it on de streets."_

So he had. From that day on, Racetrack wandered the streets of New York, doing his best to act much older and tougher than he truly was. He'd place bets on children's marble games, collecting the few pennies the kids had in order to buy himself a loaf of stale bread to survive on. From time to time, he even had been able to earn a place in the gangs in town acting as their runner in return for food and shelter, even if just for a few days. That had been his first taste of life as a gangster, and though it would be many years later after his ability to sell papes and bring in a somewhat steady supply of money came to an end, that he would result back to that way of life and make a name for himself.

"Hey Boss, we got da truck all loaded up an' ready to roll. Buster's gonna be drivin' so you wanna sit up front or in da back wit' da hooch?"

Turning his attention away from the window, Race readjusted his cabbie hat and vest. It was shocking that at forty-six he still was able to fit in the same clothes he wore back in 1899 during their strike. Though his face showed every year of his hard life, his eyes still shone just as much life and mischief as they had when he was sixteen, punching and fighting his way to victory against the thugs trying to break up their strike.

Smirking and puffing on his cigar, Race glanced out the window once more before starting for the door. "I'm ridin' up front with Buster. Dat kid gets lost walkin' out his own front door."

"But Boss, da coppah's…"

"Don't you worry 'bout dem, Nitch. See ya boys in a couple weeks." Turning, Race exited the building, tipped his hat to the black Cadillac Landu sitting across the street before climbing into the front seat of the delivery truck.

He watched as they drove by the car. Itey and Swifty scrambling to get their car started and follow closely behind him. Smirking to himself and getting as comfortable as possible, Race looked to his unofficially adopted son, Buster and nodded.

"To da airport kid, and try not to bring too much attention to us, huh? 'member, we're just simple farmin' folk takin' our eggs to be flown to California."

Nodding, the twenty year old glanced out his mirror at the cop car behind them and began to whistle merrily to himself as he drove them off in the direction of the new airport. Not at all concerned with their shadow, Buster looked to the older man.

"So, when ya gonna be back? Week or two?"

"'Bout two weeks. Figure I might be able to make a pretty penny off dis stuff while I'm out there. All those starlets and hot shots lookin' for a good drink during this damned prohibition is gonna pay anything ta get what dey want. May even check out some races while I'm out there. I'd take ya along with me, kid but just ain't a good idea right now."

Buster, whose real name was Bernard, nodded his blond head and shrugged, "It's alright, somebody's gotta stay here and keep an' eye on things."

"Yeah, just don't go tryin' to usurp me, got it?"

"Sure thing, Race. After all you done for me and my ma, I wouldn't dream of doin' such a thing."

Race smiled and reached over to ruffle the boy's hair. He'd taken Buster in and under his wing when he was no more than twelve years old. Buster had tried to pick Race's gold watch from his pocket only to have his hand get caught and tangled. Though Race was far from pleased that someone would try to steal his biological father's gold watch, the only thing he had to remember him by, Race sensed that this was a boy in true need and it touched his heart. Being sure to keep Buster out of as much trouble as possible, Race was soon able to help the boy continue his schooling and provide for his mother better than ever before.

Pulling the dark truck up onto the grassy field surrounding the airport, Race watched as the black Cadillac rolled to a stop behind them and two men dressed in black stepped out. Their hats fashionably tilted to the side, they slowly approached the truck as Race and Buster emerged. Tossing the butt of his cigar to the ground, Race broke into a wide grin.

"Hiya fellas! How's it rollin'?"

Both men nodded their greeting to the plain clothed gangster, looking every bit the same as he did as a teenager. Watching as the blond boy set about opening the back of the truck, the men turned their attention back to Race.

"Leavin' kind of early, ain't'cha Race?" Itey questioned, his arms folded over his chest as he watched crate after crate be unloaded from the back.

"Well, ya know…wanna get there before the rush." He answered, shrugging nonchalantly.

"What's in the boxes, Race?"

"Aw c'mon now Swifty, you know what's in da boxes. Same as what should be in the back of yer car. Ya did bring 'em right?"

Breaking into a smirk, Swifty tossed the keys to Itey who moved to unlock the small truck and produce three large canisters. "Of course we brought 'em. You couldn't have just told us to meet you here? You had to make us sit out in the hot sun all morning and all afternoon baking to death?"

A silly smirk on his face, Race shrugged as he took a canister from Itey and handed it off to Buster who placed them all in a crate of their own.

"Well, yeah…serves ya's right for join' the Bureau. Gotta do that sorta stuff anyways, figured ya's be used to it by now." Reaching into his pocket, Race removed a large wad of bills and began flipping through it. Handing each men a few large bills each, he tipped his hat and nodded to Buster.

"Well fellas, thanks for runnin' protection for me again. Couldn't do this without ya's. Go buy yer girls something nice. See ya's on the coast." With another smirk and nod, Race turned to set about helping the young man load their precious cargo into the underbelly of their private plane, leaving Itey and Swifty to stealthily slip away and head back to their respected homes for the night.

* * *

Despite the look of wonder and awe that had been on Donnie's face when he heard about Swifty and Itey, the look on his face after hearing about Race was pure excitement. One of his father's friends was an honest-to-goodness gangster? Donnie couldn't have picked someone to be more excited about meeting.

"All the newsies have spread out rather well, haven't they?" Dave asked, looking over at his younger brother. After a second of thinking on it, Les chuckled, but nodded.

"Ya know, I never really thought about it...but they have. We all have..." He turned his head, to ask his son who was next, but his finger was already on the face of one of their friends, hiding in the back row.

"How about this one, dad?" Donnie questioned.

Les smiled, but nodded his head. "This one..." He thought for a second. "He's using the experiences he had as a poor, struggling newsie to do his job for all the right reasons."


	12. Specs: Simple Life

12. Specs: Simple Life

Studious, astute, exceptional pupil; those had been the words his teacher had told his mother so many years ago about him, back when he had been the top of his class in the small Jackson Heights school. Before he could even really talk he'd been picking up his father's law books and almanacs to try and teach himself to read. By the time he was in the second grade, he already knew how to read and write properly, his times tables up until the sevens (though he would boast that he may not know his seven times but he could figure out the nine times table faster than anyone else could), would tie his own boots, and even could read his father's gold pocket watch.

"_Phillip,"_ his mother had once said to him, _"you can be anything you want to be when you grow up. A boy with your potential and thirst for knowledge is never without a job in this world."_

"_I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up, Mama." _

"_And a fine doctor you'll be."_

By the time Phillip "Specs" –as his sister so often would call him due to his need to wear glasses—Modaff was twelve years old, he was well on his way to fulfilling that dream. It was during his seventh year at the ever growing Jackson Heights school that hard times fell upon his family. His father, who had once been a prominent legal figure in Germany before moving himself and his young bride to America, had fallen ill from the strenuous work he'd been forced to take as a construction worker helping to dig the tunnels for the new pneumatic transit system in Manhattan. Unable to provide for his family any longer, young Phillip had been forced into the working world, leaving his schoolbooks and teachers behind.

Leaving home to go find work in the big city of Manhattan had been a difficult choice for the young boy, but it was one he knew he had to make if he was to help his parents and younger sister continue to survive in their Queens apartment. Phillip rarely told people of his family in Queens, afraid that if they found out he wasn't one of the rough and tumble orphans so many of them seemed to be that he'd be excluded from activities and possibly even from "business" opportunities. Having found work as a newsie was probably the best thing to happen to the boy. It was only after living with the group at the lodging house and seeing what little care they received when they were sick that Phillip made a solemn oath to one day go back to school and become a doctor; a doctor who would take care of the poor for less than what regular doctors charged if not for free. It wasn't going to make him rich, that he knew, but it would at least help him sleep easier at night.

He hadn't exactly loved being a newsie; in fact it would usually make him sick to his stomach having to result in trickery or false headlines just to make a sale. He'd watch from a distance as one of the female newsies would have to turn to her feminine charms in order to lure a customer in and sell her papes—usually getting to keep the change from the nickel her male admirers would hand her. It just never seemed right to Specs. If it hadn't been for the fact that he honestly enjoyed the people in the lodging house and their companionship, he probably would have given up selling papers and turned to more "honest" work as a store clerk or message boy. The newsies had become his family though, and for eight years he was up at dawn and down hawking headlines trying to make a living just like the rest of them.

At the age of twenty, long after the strike against Pulitzer and after his friends had stopped selling papers and had begun taking more adult roles in society, Specs returned to his family home in Queens. He was determined to start his long journey into medical school. With the money he and his parents had been able to save up, he could leave New York and go away to school. Long and sleepless nights, odd jobs during the day after classes and raw determination got the young man back into the top of his class, earning him full scholarships from the top medical schools in the country and job offers from some of the leading facilities of the time. It would be years still before he would be able to open his own practice, but at least his parents had both died peacefully in their sleep—though seven months apart—knowing that their son, the boy who left home at age twelve, took on a whole new life with the street urchins of Manhattan, and was a part of the most famous children's workforce strike of all time, had finally full-filled his dream of one day becoming a doctor.

Forty-seven years old and still being called Specs by his closest friends, Phillip had made quite the life for himself and for his ever growing family. He was sure that if any of his old lodging house friends found out that geeky, gawky, and lanky Specs had not only married a beautiful young lady seven years his junior but was also expecting their eighth child in a few weeks, they wouldn't be able to believe it. It was all true though. Specs had met Margaret shortly after he had moved to the small farming community in northern Illinois. Freshly out of his last year in school, he had just taken a job as the town's assistant physician and optometrist—since he held a degree in both fields—when the twenty-three-year old fair skinned and brown curls young lady had walked through their doors. Her younger brother had broken her glasses leaving her vision nothing more than blurs and fuzzy figures.

Though Specs did find Margaret to be a very attractive young lady, he had been too busy trying to start a new life for himself to even think about pursuing her. Instead the talented and spunky country girl took matters into her own hands dropping by the office often to deliver basket lunches to the two doctors, make up phony illnesses in order to see him, and even being brash enough to ask Specs to join her at the town festival. It only took her four and a half years, but Margaret had finally won the heart and attention of the then thirty-four-year old doctor. Less than a year later the two were married and by September of 1918 had welcomed their first daughter, Anna, into the world. Having moved onto Margaret's family farm, both Specs and his wife agreed that the house and land was far too big for just the three of them and neither would be truly happy until their home was filled with the laughter and love of a large family neither adult had ever known growing up. Though, expecting their eighth child, Phillip wasn't quite sure he had meant for THAT large of a family!

Arriving home in the early evening haze, the simple country doctor sat in his aging automobile and watched as his six oldest children ranging in ages from eleven to five chased each other barefoot through the soft green grass of their front lawn. Anna, Ray and Cora—the three oldest, separated by only a year between them each—would chase their younger siblings, lightly smacking their shoulders before taking off in a different direction, sometimes scrambling into the limbs of a nearby tree. Watching his kids play and laugh with each other always brought a smile to Specs' face no matter how tired or how badly his day had gone. Though he had to admit he felt sorry for his three sons—Ray, 10; Edward, 6; and Clarence who was just about to turn two—who had been outnumbered by sisters and were forced to play just a bit nicer so that they didn't accidentally hurt one of them. That wasn't to say though that Anna, Cora, Esther or even little five year old Louise couldn't handle their own with their brothers—or any other bully boy in the school yard as Anna and Esther had proven that previous school year—he just didn't want his sons to grow up thinking it was ok for them to beat up on a girl just because they were bigger and stronger than them.

"Daddy! Daddy home! Daddy home!"

Hearing the excited cry of his youngest daughter, Specs emerged from his car and bent down low to scoop the bundle of energy up before getting nearly tackled to the ground by the other five children. Laughing and giving each child an acknowledging hug or pat on the head, he tugged his age old black bowler hat off to drop it down onto Edward's little head before flipping the bill of Ray's cabbie hat down over his eyes. It never ceased to amazing Specs that even after all those years, the hat that so many of his young friends growing up in New York wore still seemed to be the style of choice for young boys.

"Where's your mother? Inside restin' I hope."

"She's makin' supper. We tried to tell her she wasn't s'pose to, but she sent us all outside to play instead." Ray answered as he moved to pick Louise up and carry her back up to the house upside down.

"You drop your sister on 'er head an' I'm makin' you sew the stitches to put her back together again." Phillip teased as he loaded Ed onto his back for a piggy back ride while Anna skipped along beside him, her hand in one of his while Cora had his other.

"Daddy? Why can't we go to California with you? We never get to go anywhere outside the state! All we get to see every day is corn fields, bean fields, and trees. We've never even been to a real beach." Anna complained.

Looking down to his oldest daughter, Specs quirked an eyebrow before nodding back up to the house where toddler Clarence stood at the screen door crying that his brothers and sisters got to be outside playing and greet daddy when he got home, but he had to stay inside with his mommy so that he didn't get lost or hurt. "I need you all here with your mother while I'm gone. It's gonna take all seven of ya's to make up one me."

"Sure, Pops, whatever you say." Setting Louise down at the bottom of the porch steps, Ray bolted up onto the landing, nabbing his crying youngest brother in the process, tickling him and blowing raspberries on his shoulder and cheek to make him laugh as he swept him off into the living room. Younger siblings following in suit, Specs, Anna and Ed brought up the rear of the small stampede.

The smell of warm biscuits and a pot roast with baked sugared carrots and diced potatoes filled the whole house and instantly made Phillip's mouth water. How he had gotten so lucky as to marry a woman who could not only paint, take (and develop) photos, and sing but also sew, cook and put up with the general chaos that was their home, he still didn't know. Sending Anna and Ed off to be with their brothers and sisters, Specs moved into the kitchen and shook his head.

"You shouldn't be cookin' ya know? You should be restin'."

"I couldn't very well let Anna and Cora try to cook supper, I don't have it in me to get all the kids out and call for the fire department should they catch the kitchen curtains on fire again."

Smiling and shaking his head, he moved to take the spoon away from his very pregnant wife and set her down in a chair. Moving back to the stove, he gave the simmering pot of gravy a stir before looking back at her. "I hate to say this, but I'm sendin' Ray to get your mother in the mornin' and she's gonna come stay with you 'til I get home. You ain't gonna put yourself into an early labor while I'm in California visitin' the fellas."

Frowning and putting her hands on her stomach, Margaret sighed as she rested her head back on the wall behind her. "I wish you wouldn't go. Can't you just send a card or wire out to them saying your wife is expecting and you can't leave?"

Specs laughed as he turned to give the gravy another quick stir. "Maggie, you ain't due for a whole other month yet. I ain't gonna be gone that long. Just a week or so. Ya know how long it's been since we all last got together. This is the first time in years that we all are gonna be able to meet up. Not even all of us were together for Snipe's funeral."

"Well…still. Why couldn't you all get together here?"

"You really want sixteen former Manhattan newsboys stayin' 'ere, laughing, drinkin', smokin', gamblin', and relivin' all our good times? 'Sides that…at least one of them isn't exactly on the right side of the law right now, really want the kids meetin' an honest to goodness bootleggin' gangster?"

Margaret's face paled at the thought and she quickly shook her head. "But I don't exactly want you associating with him either."

"Race an' I go way back, don't worry, he's pretty harmless. 'Sides, Les'll be there, he's a lawyer…Itey an' Swifty are both government agents…we can't get into too much trouble." Setting the spoon down and moving to give her a reassuring hug, Specs smiled. "You an' the kids will be just fine…especially once I get your witch of a mother here to watch over ya's."

Jaw dropping in fake shock and offense, Margaret thwacked Specs shoulder, shoving him out of her way as she stood up and took the spoon back. Waving it at him threateningly, she scooted him out of the kitchen. "You just…oooh you…go pack or something! Out of my kitchen! Get!"

Laughing and dodging out of the way of flying drops of gravy, Specs ducked into the stairwell and paused for just a moment to look at all the memories hanging from the wall. Most were pictures Margaret had taken of the children, except one. Like everyone else from the Duane Street Lodging house, Specs had gotten a framed copy of their historic front page strike from Kloppman the Christmas after it happened. Though many of the boys didn't have a safe place to store theirs, Specs had made certain that his hung first in his parent's home, then in his as a constant reminder of why he had chosen to become a doctor. Giving a small smile at the faded faces staring back at him, he turned and continued up the stairs to pack for his reunion trip.

* * *

Trees turned to fields as the night crept on, the express train from New York to LA hurtling through the darkness. The gentle rocking of the car as it rattled down the tracks mixed with the comfort of his father's voice telling him about the boy called Specs had long ago lulled young Donnie to sleep against his uncle's side. All around them, passengers nodded off to slumber, their heads lightly bouncing against the windows from the trains vibrations.

The Jacobs brothers sat in silence for what felt like ages, each staring out the window and lost in their own thoughts about their families they left in New York and about their "adopted" family they were going to see. Both men wondered to themselves if their old friends still looked and acted like they had when they were younger, though they knew that wasn't possible. Time had taken its toll on each of them and they knew it.

In just a few more hours they'd be arriving in beautiful sunny California, home to movie stars, orange groves, and most importantly, two of their dearest friends. Looking away from the window as Donnie moved and snuggled in against him more, Dave gave a little smile, smoothing his hair out before looking at his brother.

"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Les. I got a letter just before I left from Crutchy. He's not going to be able to make it either…but, well here…I'll let you read it."


	13. Crutchy: Of Soccer, Spanish, and Strikes

13. Crutchy: Of Soccer, Spanish, and Strikes

_Heya Dave!_

_I got your last letter about the reunion, it sounds like it's gonna be a big blast! Too bad I ain't gonna be able to make it. Wish I could but hey, maybe sometime you and Les and your families can come down here! It's really great down here in Florida, really! Wide open spaces, a beach with the whitest sand you ever saw and miles and miles of ocean! And it's a BLUE ocean! Not that murky brown water from back home._

_Boy I gotta tell ya Dave, I didn't think when I joined this that I'd be of much help but, I am! Who'da thought a gimp like me would be able to help build homes and offices and stuff like that? This missionary thing ain't half bad…I mean look at how well I write now! Couldn't do this back home, that's for sure. These folks don't even mind that I'se Jewish (Padre' Ferdinand said, "Herschel, no one is perfect except in the eye of their Lord." He's a pretty smart fella, that Padre').Ya know what's really great though, Dave? I got put in charge of an orphanage. Don't worry, I ain't like Synder though!_

_These kids down here are almost as bad off as we were back in the day, only deference is…heh, estos niños hablan español. In case ya don't know what that says…it says, 'these children speak Spanish'. Can you believe it?! I know how to speak Spanish now…not very well, but I can a little…enough to get me by, anyways. These kids are really great Davey, I wish ya could meet 'em. They're so full of life and willing to learn new things and teach me new things…they even let me play in their soccer games…most times I sit and watch though—couldn't really move all that fast when I was younger, hasn't gotten better since then! It's really an interesting game, I think your kids would like it!!_

_Boy I wish I could make it to the reunion, it'd be so great to see you fellas again. I really miss ya's. I sent Spot a letter a few months back, but he never answered me. That's ok though, he never really cared for me much anyways…I think I annoyed him. It's too bad that he ain't going to be at the reunion either, despite it all, I betcha he would like to see everybody one last time too. Hey! If ya can, why don't ya's take a picture of everybody…one regular one and then one just like the one Denton took! I'm sure one of ya's must have a copy of that original picture…use that and pose just like ya's did back then! Then ya's can send a copy of both to Spot! Ain't that a great idea!? I sure would like to see everyone again…so if ya's could…please send me one too? It'd be nice to show ya's all off to my kids down here, they've heard a lot about'chas._

_They keep asking me to tell them stories about the strike, they love hearin' stories about kids just like them that were able to do something so great as what we…well…ok you guys did. I keep tellin' the kids that I spent most of the strike in the Refuge, but they won't listen to me. For some reason they always make __me__ the hero of the stories instead of Jack and you! To hear them tell it, I single-handedly brought the Refuge to its knees and beat the snot out of Synder with my crutch. I tried to correct them the first few times, but I finally just gave up…I really don't mind it actually. _

_There's one boy down here, Pablo, he reminds me so much of Jack. Actually, there's a lot of kids down here that remind me of ya's—Pablo even has a best friend who is a bookworm and all the kids nicknamed him "Dave" because of it. It's ok! He's a good kid, a little shy and to me more like Les…but he's a good kid. Pablo leads mini strikes down here…protesting about wanting more free time to play soccer, less time in classrooms…so far they haven't won anything but a compromise—five more minutes of free time for four more minutes of classroom to make up for it. A small victory, but that's all they were after._

_I swear to ya Davey, one of these kids could be Bumlets' long lost little sister. She lives in the girl's home across the field but she tends to wander over here to hear stories and play. Her name is Guadalupe and she is just as cute as can be! She's got the same dark hair and bright eyes…and the few times she's smiled she looks just like him! And sing, boy oh boy can that little girl sing. She's probably only about twelve years old, doesn't hardly say a word most times and if she comes over to play…she doesn't really play more as sits on the side to watch…once in awhile she runs to get the ball if it goes out of bounds; start playin' a song though and that little girl sings just as sweet as an angel! She only sings in Spanish cuz she doesn't know a lick of English, but it's just amazing to hear._

_Well Dave, we're still preparing for when the big storms come through again, gotta make sure everything is ready to stand up against the winds and rains. Oh man you oughta see the storms that come ragin' through here! They wipe out entire stores and homes and shorelines…wash up all kinds of fish and ocean stuff; me and the kids keep waiting for a chest of gold or treasure to wash ashore during one of those things! Hasn't happened yet, but we got big plans for this place for when it does! First, we're gonna fix all the loose floorboards and plumbing in this joint, give it a nice fresh coat of paint—maybe a real nice green color, I always liked green!—then buy new cots and bunks, new blankets and clothes…a whole bunch of stuff. It's gonna be great!_

_I guess that's probably it for now, Davey. I better let ya go so you can get ready for your big trip! Travelin' by train from New York to Los Angeles, that's a long ways! But if Les and his son are goin' with ya, at least ya won't be lonely! Be sure to tell Les I say hi and hope everything is goin' good for him…same with all the other fellas. And hey, let them all know how much I miss 'em and wish 'em all the best of luck with whatever they're all doin' now (is it true 'bout Race? He really a gangster now?), ok? Hope ya don't go too hard on Jack when ya see him…something's just ain't meant to be sometimes, ya know?_

_Take care of yourself Davey. You're letters an' updates on all the fellas are always welcome down here; makes me feel like maybe I ain't so far away from ya's all after all. Look forward to getting them every month!_

_Your friend always,_

_Herschel Morris  
"Crutchy"_

* * *

"Dad? Hey Dad? Dad you awake?"

"Donnie, let him sleep…he just fell asleep about an hour ago." Dave said quietly, reaching out to keep his young nephew from waking his father. It was horrible to admit but, the way Les had balled his jacket up as a pillow against the window, Dave couldn't help but think how much he looked like the little ten-year-old boy Jack had carried home after a busy first day of selling papes.

Frowning, Donnie moved from his place next to his dad and sat back down next to his uncle. "How come?"

"Couldn't sleep, I imagine. Anxious to meet up with all the guys again, most likely."

"But it's almost noon!"

Giving a little laugh, Dave nodded and moved to stand up. "I know. Come on, let's go to the dining car; I'll buy you a sandwich and soda."

Getting up and grabbing his hat and the newspaper, Donnie looked to his father and then followed his uncle down to the next car for lunch. The fields were turning back into trees and hills, signaling that California wasn't far. A man behind the counter smiled at the pair as he poured the black tart coffee into Dave's waiting cup before setting about to get their order ready for them.

After a moment, and in between bites of his liverwurst and cheese sandwich, Donnie looked to his uncle. "Hey Uncle Davy? Who else is gonna be there when we get there?"

"Well," Dave paused to sip his coffee, making sure to add a bit of cream and a couple of sugar cubes, before looking at the picture once again. "This one here is definitely going to be there. In fact, we're going to be having a big dinner at his restaurant."

Donnie tilted his head as he took a swig from his soda to look at the boy his uncle pointed at. His dark, surprised eyes stared out at him, his long-ish dark hair framing his round face.


	14. Bumlets: It's A Fine Life

14. Bumlets: It's a Fine Life

Lillian Gish, Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford—their names hung in the air just like the smoke from men's fine cigars and ladies thin cigarettes. At table after table, celebrities of the highest caliber sat smoking and drinking their tall glasses of Champaign. A jazz big band sat on a platform at the rear of the swank restaurant, the sounds of popular dance tunes echoing off the low ceiling and flooding the building with an upbeat and snazzy atmosphere. Flappers in their feathered boas and sequenced dresses danced the Charleston with the zoot suit and spats clad boys, laughing and smiling merrily as they moved to the music. On the wall behind the brightly lit bar hung headshots of other great actors of the time—John Barrymore, Rudolf Valentino, Clara Bow, Gloria Swanson, Al Jolson—almost all of them signed to the same man, Gabriel "Bumlets" Hernandez.

Waiters dressed in bright white tuxes with a black stripe running down the outside of the slacks bustled from table to table, treys balancing expertly on the tips of their fingers as they weaved in and out of the crowd. Patrons laughed and toasted one another while men at the bar would sporadically break into drunken song. Outside, a line half a block long, waited to enter the most elegant "hole-in-the-wall" restaurant in Hollywoodland. Located on Hollywood Boulevard, not far from The Roosevelt Hotel—a hotel that's name still brought a small smile to his face—Bumlets' pride and joy-aptly and simply called _Gabriel's_-was the first thing the forty-five year old could honestly call his own.

He'd worked his whole life struggling to get just one thing that was truly and forever _just his_, something that he didn't have to share with anyone and that no one would try to take away from him. Since his younger days living and barely surviving on the streets of Manhattan, Gabriel had dreamed of one day fulfilling his own mother's dream of owning a restaurant. He honestly didn't remember much about his mother, she died when he was only six years old, but what he did remember of her was filled with smiles and the sweet scents of breads baking, new recipes given to her from their tenement neighbors and songs. Bumlets had never known his father, and Catalina Hernandez never once spoke of him in her son's presence; since his birth it had always been just him and her, doing their best to get by in their over-crowded Turtle Bay apartment.

For weeks after his mother's untimely death, the six year old boy with the brown eyes and smile of a Spanish angel wandered the rough streets of his neighborhood in search of a familiar face willing to take in another mouth to feed. No one would. People were all too quick to sweep him off their doorsteps in the morning, or chase them away from their windows were a loaf of bread sat cooling. It had been a kindly older man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses who saw him digging through a trash pail one morning that took pity on him. Bringing him back to the lodging house, Kloppman had even been the one to give him the nickname of "Bumlets".

"_Who ya got dere, Kloppy? Huh? Hey lookit him! Does he know English? What's his name?" The questions came without end as the supervisor entered the building with the small and frightened little boy. _

_Scooting the other boys out of the way and bringing the lad with jet black hair and dark brown eyes forward, Kloppman placed a hand on the boy. "It's a Bumlet, like de rest of ya's. Now get goin', sell some papes or something, go!"_

That first night in the lodging house had terrified the young boy; so many other boys fighting each other for a bunk or blanket, older boys grabbing the fighting youngsters by the back of their shirts and hauling them apart, and one lad beating a few smaller ones out of their last couple of cents in a dice game. By the following morning however, the boy now called Bumlets, had been wrapped up in the fun and games that was their morning routine and swept up in the excitement of selling papers. Another boy, Skittery—who would become one of his closest friends—had taught him that carrying a wooden pole as a walking stick would help get people's attention, especially if he waved it around in the air as he called out his headlines. The stick, he had also discovered, was handy when he and Skittery would become bored and decide to "sword fight" each other. Still, his heart and mind would drift back to his mother's wish of owning her own food establishment.

He'd told Kloppman of his desire to learn how to cook and one day open a restaurant and the aging man wasted no time in showing the lad around their meager kitchen and even allowed him to help make the meals for the boys who chose to eat there. More often than not, after Bumlets would get done selling and decided against going to a show or to hang out with Skittery, he was found in the Duane St Lodging House kitchen, trying out different things with what little they had and creating his own "specialties". There were days when the headline would be so bad no amount of trickery or antics would bring in a customer and Bumlets as would go in to the small restaurants and delicatessens asking for just one day of work.

As he got older and he watched his close knit gang of selling pals drift in their own directions, Bumlets moved from town to town, finding odd jobs as a busboy or waiter, occasionally as a cook if the owner was really desperate, here and there. It was never an easy life for him, but it was one that he knew he must make through if ever he were to make his dreams come true. Night and day he'd work and travel with nothing more than a single suitcase, the suit on his back, and what little money he could afford to tuck away.

He traveled from New York down through New Jersey to Philadelphia; hop-scotched through Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia and into Indianapolis, Indiana for a time. He would stop at every major town the train stopped at, find work for a few days, and then be back on his way. From Indiana he moved to Springfield, Illinois, onto Topeka, Kansas where he experienced his first and last twister (he later learned while helping to rebuild parts of the town that it was nothing for that area to receive a dozen or so twisters during the "season"). Diner to diner, fancy restaurant to fancy restaurant from Kansas through Amarillo, Texas through to Albuquerque, New Mexico and into Phoenix, Arizona. He even managed to get a free ride from Phoenix to Los Angeles by working the dining car on one of the trains.

Getting into the city of Angels with no formal training in anything and only the raw determination to work and save made things difficult on the then twenty-five-year-old man. He quickly learned that life on the west coast was a far cry from what he'd known all his life in Manhattan. With the exception of a few, most people had a lazy vibe about them; the warm weather, bright sunshine, and gentle roar of the ocean seemed to keep people's stress levels low. Bumlets had to admit that he'd taken quite a liking to the beaches and even took up a part-time job at a little beachside diner just so he could watch the waves and people splashing about happily.

Though it took him a good ten years of saving and near non-stop working, Bumlets had finally saved up enough to buy a little unit on Hollywood Boulevard just as that area was coming into its own as "movie making central." _Bummer's_, as it was originally called, started off as a tiny cafeteria like establishment for the film crews working at the scattered sets and make-shift studios. Occasionally an actor or two would trickle in, though to Bumlets they were regular people just like everyone else.

Anyone could tell you that it was that exact reason that made _Gabriel's _such a beloved place to the high-brows of town. No matter how much the town had changed through the years, studios and hotels, offices and streets popping up all around him, the only thing to ever change in Bumlets restaurant was its name. Of course it had expanded as time went on, buying up the unit next to it as well as the office space above them, but the food and low-key atmosphere the owner dished out made it the diamond in the rough.

It took him quite a bit of time and a few close calls financially to figure out the business end to owning his own restaurant, but Gabriel himself would be the first to say he wouldn't have changed a single hard earned moment for anything. His clientele loved him, the critics rarely had a bad word to write about him or his food (though on the sparse occasion he would receive a bad review, more often than not he would invite that critic in for a night on him to try and make up for it), and the young men and women coming out to try and get into the movies were usually directed to him first if they needed a "day job". He couldn't remember how many times he'd hired boys not much older than fifteen or sixteen to bus tables, or how many twenty-something year olds to be waiters or bartenders for him. Though it wasn't anything personal towards the women who would come in looking for jobs, rarely would he hire them. He'd seen the way females were treated in restaurant situations and more times than not it was never a good thing. That's not to say he didn't have _any_ women working for him, because he did have a good handful from time to time; a secretary to take messages for him while he would be out mingling, a few female singers, and one or two cigarette girls who would drift in and out of the back room to sell once an hour.

Standing behind the black glossy bar, laughing and smiling, Gabriel "Bumlets" Hernandez had quite literally come a long ways from his slummy beginnings. No longer dressed in unbuttoned knickers, knee high black socks, and a dirty blue shirt, the forty-five-year old now wore suits every bit as expensive as the ones worn by the big stars; his hair-though still a bit on the long side-was combed and slicked back elegantly, giving him the air of a sophisticated, educated businessman. Still, anyone who had known him as a teen would have to be blind not to recognize his angelic smile and twinkling brown eyes.

"Hey boss, Cattie got your sign put up; wants you to come back and see it."

Looking over his shoulder to the young man who called him, Gabriel smiled, excused himself and hurried through the crowded room to the back where a small group of people were busy moving decorations, tables, chairs, and various other objects around. Across the back wall, above where the band normally would play, hung a sign worthy of a king. It had been hand crafted using a long sheet of tan fabric, the words delicately painted out by Bumlets' only child, Catalina. "Welcome to the Manhattan Newsies 30th Year Reunion!" was in big bold black letters while the phrase she had teasingly thought up was smaller and at an angle towards the edge, "Still Carryin' the Banner After All These Years!"

"Well Daddy," the sixteen year old girl started, wrapping her arms lovingly around her father, "Whaddya think? It's not too subtle is it?"

Bumlets couldn't help but laugh as he shook his head, hugging his daughter tightly. "No, subtlety had never been a strong point of yours, so this works out perfectly."

Beaming from ear to ear, Catalina looked about as the rest of their staff bustled about to make sure they had everything ready and on hand for when the first wave of reunion goers would arrive the following morning. Nodding in agreement, she looked back to her father.

"You really like the sign, Daddy? Even with my little phrase at the end?"

"Cattie, I would keep the sign up for the rest of time if I could. It's perfect, and I'm sure the fellas are going to get a kick out of your phrase." Sighing softly, Bumlets kissed her head before looking back at the sign. "I just wish your mom could be here to meet all the other guys."

"Heh, trust me Daddy, Mom was quite content just knowing Uncle Mikhail. She used to tell me that knowing him and you was about as much 'East Coast' as she could handle. Though…I do wish she were here anyways, if nothing else than to just watch her cross herself and go up to the office muttering about you and your antics in Spanish the whole way."

Pulling away from her, Bumlets looked offended as he moved to help a teen bus boy scoop up a stack of dirty dishes to put in his wash basket. "Antics? I don't know what you're talking about. I never pulled any antics. There ya go, Sid. Be careful with that now, it's heavy…both hands…thattaboy."

"So, you mean, you don't remember trying to spin from the ceiling fan just to prove you used to be able to do it? Or broom fighting with Uncle Mikhail after closing time? Or—"

"Alright, alright, ya got me." Laughing and shaking his head, the middle aged man moved to straighten a couple pictures on the wall.

"Trust me darlin', it's probably a good thing your mother isn't here to witness this, Dios descansa su alma. If she thought me and Mikhail were bad," Glancing over his shoulder, a twinkle of youthful enthusiasm and mischief glittering in his deep brown eyes, he smirked knowingly, "she's going to be shaking her head and waving her hands at us in frustration once the fellas all show up. This place is going to be crawlin' with former newsies, and your poor mother is going to be rolling in her grave."

* * *

Donnie bounced in his seat excitedly as the train car rattled and rolled through the Rocky Mountains. Never in his life had he seen such awe inspiring beauty. Of course, never in his life had he been able to travel from one end of the country to the other.

"Hey Dad? How much longer till we get there?"

Les looked up from the papers he'd been reading and smiled a bit. Glancing out the window, he gave a slight shrug. "Well, probably only about another couple of hours is my guess."

"Oh." Donnie frowned, his shoulders slumped, as he stopped bouncing in his seat and just sat staring out the window. He'd thought for sure they were closer than that.

Glancing to Dave and smiling, Les picked the framed paper up off the floor and handed it back to his son. "Hey, we haven't gone over everyone in this picture yet. Maybe if you ask your Uncle Dave real nice, he'll tell you about a couple of them."

Eyes brightening as he took the paper back, Donnie bounced into the seat next to his uncle and smiled brightly. Holding it out to him, the boy looked up expectantly. Dave stared at the paper for a moment before looking back to his little brother. Hadn't this been _his_ idea? Les was the one who kept in the most contact with everyone, not him. Frowning though, he scanned the picture over before landing on the face of a boy he hadn't thought about in a few years. Wedged in the back, behind Snipeshooter and next to Snoddy, was a boy with a funny round face dressed in denim overalls and a bowler cap.

"Alright," Dave started as he tapped his finger on the picture, "have you heard about this guy yet?"

"No, who is he?"


	15. Jake: The Worst That Could Happen

**Disclaimer: ::Checks watch:: Nope...still don't own 'em...**

**Author's Note: This chapter was inspired by a song called "The Worst That Could Happen"...about a fella who had this girl for the longest time but never married her. Then all of the sudden the girl was gone, off to marry someone else who _wanted_ to marry her. The guy tells her that he's happy she found someone who could love her more than him and that her getting married was the best thing to happen for her, but her getting married was the worst thing to happen to him. Just kinda made me think up this chapter. My apologies to Jake fans ::blushblush::  
**

* * *

15. Jake: The Worst That Could Happen

_Dear Jake…_

Those words had been burnt into his mind, haunting his dreams and every waking moment since the day he'd found the letter. She hadn't been able to face him; she left a letter, telling him that what they'd had together was over. They'd been together for nearly ten years, how could she just suddenly be gone? The little boy he'd grown to call his own son taken with her. Had those ten years really been so horrible that all she could do was leave him a "Dear John" letter while he was in town getting supplies? How had he missed the signs that something wasn't right? Sure, things weren't easy for them, but he'd been willing to try to make things work if she was willing to! So what they weren't married? It wasn't like the boy they were raising together was really his son, because he wasn't. She'd been pregnant with the little tyke when Jake found her wandering down the dirt road he lived on. She was sick and weak, only days away from giving birth, so he'd taken her in—took care of her and even helped the doctor bring Robert Jacob into the world. She had given her son his name as a thank you even!

Then, just as quickly as he stumbled upon her that fateful day, he'd lost her.

Jacob Peters hadn't ever really given much thought to ever making an honest woman out of Maryanne, even after RJ had started calling him "Dada." It wasn't that he didn't want to marry her or wanted people to talk about her behind their backs, he just never thought about it. They'd had a happy relationship, a good thing going even. He had his own bedroom and bathroom in the upstairs of his modest little farm house while he'd given them free run of the entire downstairs; two bedrooms, the living room, a bathroom with running water (even hot water! A big thing for a farmhouse to have at that time), the kitchen, even the porch was all theirs to do as they pleased with. Never once did he even ask for one single cent in rent or payment for staying there.

People always talked though, called her a Jezebel, RJ a bastard-child, and many times made comments about Jake being "evil and unholy" for being thirty-four and taking in a girl no more than seventeen. It never really bothered any of them much though; Maryanne and Jake both knew there was nothing wrong with what they were doing, especially if what they were doing was a lot of nothing! It was seven years before Jake even thought about giving her a real, honest to goodness kiss goodnight instead of the platonic peck on the cheek like he'd usually do, even then it had only been a thought—never being much of a "ladies man", he'd always been too shy to even attempt to kiss her goodnight.

They were never exclusive, how could they be if they showed no more feelings for each other than just that of friendship? So it shouldn't have surprised Jake to find her gone off to marry a man closer to her own age, who was rich and stable, completely in love with her and ready to finally make an honest woman of her. What surprised him were the letter and the way she went about the whole thing, as if it were a matter of national security. If nothing else, Jake had always assumed they were at least _friends_!

He'd gone to find her after he read the letter, sped the whole way to the train station, vowing that if he missed the train he'd find some way to cut it off and get them to stop so he could at least say goodbye to them. He was _not_ going to let them get away that easy. Too many of his friends had left without saying goodbye during his lifetime and he wasn't about to let another one get away with it. He'd been the last of the original gang to stop being a newsie and leave the city and each time a friend would decide it was time to move on with their lives, it'd broken his heart just a bit more. The newsies were his family, the only family he'd ever known, so having them each either not return to the lodging house at the end of the day or just up and leave during the night leaving only a note (sometimes not even that much) without saying a proper goodbye killed him.

Over and over in his head, he repeated what he'd wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that it was ok that she wanted to get married, that he was happy for her even; that he was glad she found a man that made her feel safe, sane and so secure. He realized that many times she had wanted to ring his neck for different things: forgetting to pick up his clear laundry off the porch, forgetting to bring his dirty laundry down for her to wash, spending too much time taking care of his fields and animals, not spending enough time helping RJ learn how to do things around the farm. He'd hoped to apologize for all those things and let her know that he was sorry for never thinking that she would even _want_ to get married! It was foolish of him not to think that a girl like her—one who was always cooking, cleaning, sewing and taking care of daily household chores—would want to get married and have a house to call her home! So if Donald P. Southland loved her more than Jake had come to care for her, then marrying Donald was perhaps the best thing that would ever happen to Maryanne. The thought of no longer seeing her smiling face with her twinkling, green eyes and long, flowing red hair greeting him in the evening when he got done for the day, or taking RJ fishing or to a ballgame in the neighboring big city though, that was the worst thought in the entire world to Jake.

Jake's little, dirty and dusty red farm truck bumped and rattled down the road, a trail of gravel kicking up behind it as he pushed it to its limits trying to make it to the station in time. He could see the smoke from the locomotive in the distance and prayed he wasn't too late. All he wanted was the chance to say goodbye, to give RJ one last hug and ruffle that crazy mop of red hair that reminded him so much of the children's book character Peter Pan. He practically had _Peter and Wendy_ memorized all the times he'd listened to Maryanne read it to RJ before bed and on more than one occasion Jake and RJ would sneak away during the hot summer days to play "Peter and Hook" down by the stream. Who would read now? Jake never had learned how to read properly, the words and letters always seemed jumbled or backwards to him (which was another reason he'd been so shocked by her letter).

Down the road the truck sped, the forty-four year old wiping at the sweat already plastering his brown bangs to his forehead. Reaching up to yank at the top two buttons of his shirt, he gulped hard, nerves and heat suffocating him in the cab of the truck. Slamming his hand down onto the horn as he came up to a farmer trying to get his cattle to cross the road, Jake panicked for a moment fearing the delay would cost him everything.

After what felt like lifetimes, he'd made it to the train station on the outskirts of town. Barely pausing to put the vehicle in park, he'd jumped from the cab and began running the rest of the way, calling out for her or the little boy. People stared as he went by, his bibbed overalls dirt stained and one clasp undone, leaving the bib part to fold half over itself. He had to look like a complete fool or worse yet nothing more than a common vagabond, but he didn't care. Darting onto the platform, he jumped into the air, hoping to spy them over the crowds.

"Maryanne! Maryanne! RJ!? RJ!?" He called, doing his best to see into the windows of the waiting train, praying one of them would hold the pair. Not meaning to be rude, just in a near frantic state, Jake pushed and shoved people out of his way, ducking around folks struggling with their bags and even leaping over suitcases and trunks just left lay.

"Excuse me sir, you can't get on board without a ticket." The conductor said, catching him about the waist as he tried to run up the steps.

"I'm just looking for someone, please! It's important!"

"Not without a ticket."

"I don't want to go anywhere! I just need to find someone! I have to say goodbye!!" Jake pleaded, his large brown eyes begging to be listened to and allowed to just check the cars over for them.

Being pushed back down onto the platform, he watched as the conductor shook his head and pointed towards the ticket terminals. "Get a ticket, come back, then you can find your friend. Otherwise, you should have thought about saying goodbye to them sooner."

Heart racing, Jake turned and went running for a different car further up the line. Grabbing the rail and swinging around to the top of the stairs, he started his search all over again. Calling out to them as he darted down the aisle, peeking around newspapers and under women's hats in hopes of finding mother and son.

"Maryanne!? RJ!? Has anyone…they…the little boy's only ten! Bright red hair, big green eyes, missing two teeth. She's got long red hair, green eyes…anyone, please?"

"You again!" Furious with the middle-aged farmer, the conductor grabbed the back of Jake's shirt as he tried to dart out the door and into the next car. Shoving him down the stairs and back onto the platform, the conductor shouted a few choice words at Jake before shoving the door closed.

Frantic, Jake ran for the ticket terminal and began searching his pockets for his money. "Hi…I uhm…I need a ticket…one way…to uhm…to…where's my…I just had it…uhm…one way ticket to Ottumwa."

"One way to Ottumwa? I'm sorry, sir but, we don't have another train going to Ottumwa until tomorrow morning."

His head shooting up and his eyes wide in surprise, he stared at the lady behind the counter. "Wh-what do you mean? What are you talking about? It's right there!" He pointed to the train behind him that was just getting ready to pull out before looking back at the woman with pleading eyes.

Knitting her eyebrows together and pointing to the schedule board next to the terminal, she frowned. "No sir, that train is the seven o'clock to Davenport. Our trains only run to Ottumwa twice a day; once at six in the morning and then again at six in the evening. The train to Ottumwa left an hour ago."

Jake felt his entire body slump at those words, his hands falling limp from his pockets, a few bills fluttering from his grasp as the steam from the train billowed around him, the wheels slowly beginning to roll. He'd been too late after all. A whole hour too late.

Just like before, his friendship didn't seem to matter enough to anyone that he should get a proper goodbye.

Getting back to his empty house twelve miles outside of Mason City, Jake wandered inside feeling completely numb to the world. The small two story home suddenly felt like the largest mansion in the world, utterly void of all the warmth and joy that had once been inside. Moving for the cellar, Jake tugged a key off the door frame and shuffled to a locked door. Opening it and flipping the light on, he sighed as he looked at the bottles of whiskey and moonshine he had long ago locked up in an attempt to get clean. Gulping hard, he reached out to one of the jugs, the heavy ceramic frigid against his fingers. It'd been ten years since he'd last had even a drop of alcohol, ten years since he had vowed he'd no longer drink himself into a stupor, an entire decade since he decided he finally had reason to give up drinking—had someone who wouldn't abandon him and would help him.

Part of him screamed for his hand to take the jug and down its contents in one fell swoop while another begged him not to, reminded him that in just a few days he was supposed to be on a train to Los Angeles. Warring with himself, Jake finally let out an anguished cry as he crumbled to the cold dirt floor. Pulling his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them before letting the pent up tears fall freely. Why did she have to leave? Why did all his friends have to leave? Why did everyone always end up abandoning him?

* * *

Donnie smiled as he looked down at the book that sat on his lap. According to the conductor they only had about another hour and a half before they finally arrived in Los Angeles. They were just leaving Utah when he'd asked and still had to go through the very Northwest corner of Arizona and the very Southeast edge of Nevada before they'd reach the California state line. From there it was a straight and quick shot to LA.

Pressing his lips together and glancing from the little map in his book to the newspaper that had taken up residence in the seat next to him, Donnie did a mental head count before looking back at his map. Breaking into a wide grin, he grabbed the frame once more and held it out to his father and uncle.

"Hey! Hey! Look! We only have three more states to go…and…and only three more guys! That's one a state!"

Looking at the picture, Les gave a slight smile as he nodded. "So it is."

Shoulders dropping and giving his father a blank look, Donnie pushed the frame into his lap before raising his eyebrows. "Soooo…you didn't finish telling me about all of them! We only have three more states to go which means you've got time to do it. C'mon dad!"

Stifling a laugh, Dave smirked at his little brother before shrugging. "Yeah, c'mon dad, finish telling him about everyone. Here," pointing to the boy standing between Jake and Snitch his eyes wide in what appeared to be a mixture of surprise and fear, "tell him about Johnny."


	16. Pie Eater: Highland Coal Mining Company

**Author's Note: I'd like to thank everyone who has been reading this so far! Wheeee!! Thankies so much! Also like to thank everyone on the NML for voting for it, making it the third place winner for "Best Fan Fiction"! Woot woot!! I love ya Stress...but one day, I will write a story that beats you! Anyhoot! Also a quick disclaimer here...I don't own Megan, Alex, Randy, Emily, Landon or Annie...those belong to my best friend whom I thank for letting me barrow. I know how much she loves her babies and I hope they stayed true to their charries. With that said...enjoy Pie Eater's chapter!!**

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16. Pie Eater: Highland Coal Mining Company

The mid-summer's night air hung thick as molasses around the tiny town. Mosquitoes buzzed angrily as they bounced off the window screens while the gentle hymn of the bullfrogs and toads lulled the world around them to sleep. The song of the crickets chirping carried into the homes on the warm, muggy breeze.

Light filtered into his room; not the light of the moon, the light from the mines. It'd been ages since the moon was able to wrap him in its gentle blanket before bed. He'd long since forgotten what it was like to fall asleep listening to nothing more than the gentle breathing of the lodgers sharing the bunk room with him at the time. From his bedroom window Johnny "Pie Eater" Anderson could still see the stars from time to time, the brightest of the bright shining through dust and smoke from the coal mine and reminding him of another day, another time.

Pie Eater felt the earth shake under his bed as he lie, one arm under his head the other wrapped protectively around his wife. Closing his eyes, he pretended not to notice as the bells and sirens pierced the night. Men shouted and yelled as they ran from their homes; women in hysterics while their children stood in silent terror at the screen door. It was a horrible thing to do, playing like he hadn't been awoken from a sound sleep, but at the moment he didn't care. He'd told those people that tunnel wasn't safe anymore, that it was time to strip a new area, and did they listen to him? No. The big wigs who owned the mine- but had absolutely nothing to do with it- never listened to him. _Keep digging! Keep bringing up that coal!_ Had been their only reply.

They didn't care if the men and teenage boys working in their mines lived or died, it didn't matter one bit to them if an employee lost a limb in a freak pick ax accident; there were always people looking for an honest day's work doing whatever they could to make a buck, and if it meant spending twelve or fourteen—sometimes more—hours a day down in the pitch-black caverns below the earth in search of coal, then that's what they were going to do. The businessmen who owned the mines thought little of the welfare of their employees. So long as their mines still produced the precious fuel, and they still had people willing to get dirty to get it for them that was all that mattered.

The red phone in the living room began to buzz, its steady cry of SOS echoing off the bare walls and hanging around his head just like a pesky insect.

In the bed next to him, Johnny's wife of more years than he could remember, stirred and stifled a yawn. He sighed as he moved to sit up. He hated waking her up and hated it even more when he'd see the fear and worry in her eyes at the sound of the emergency whistles. It was her worst fear to wake up one night to find he'd gone to help in any way that he could only not return on the final trip back top with survivors.

Opening her brown eyes and fumbling for her glasses, Megan frowned as she sat up. She watched as he reached for his dirt stained blue shirt, the weeks of spending time in and around the coal dirt settling in too much to ever be washed out again. Once upon a time, when she'd first met him working in a bakery in Greensboro, North Carolina, he'd looked so youthful and happy dressed in his brown slacks and yellow button up shirt. His brown eyes were slightly sunken and his brown bangs were cut in a rather jagged line across his forehead, as if whoever cut them had the shaky hands for an old man. When he smiled though, those same sunken brown eyes and pale, drawn cheeks brightened and flushed. His laughter made his eyes twinkle and sparkle with a life that captivated the woman. He'd had the zest for life and the thirst for freedom that had spoke deeply to Megan's mature and wounded heart.

"Johnny? Please be careful," she whispered through the dark, not wanting to waken their four year old daughter asleep in the bed with her.

Turning his attention back to his wife and daughter, Pie Eater gave a small smile before he shrugged and sat back down on the bed. Leaning down to kiss the little girl's blond hair, he looked back to his wife—his brown eyes still sunken, looking older and more tired than his actual age.

"Don't worry 'bout me, darlin'. I'll be fine. You and Emily just get some more sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Johnny," Megan's voice caught in her throat as she forced back tears, "Alex…he was working the night shift tonight, said he was covering for Jonas."

Pie Eater stopped as he was tugging his boot onto his foot. His hands instantly felt cold and clammy as he struggled to gulp back down his dinner from that night. His mind reeled as he blinked into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, Johnny carefully stood back up and nodded down at the silhouette of his frightened wife.

"It'll be okay, Meg. Get some more sleep. I'm going to send Randy and Annie in here." Came his answer as he hobbled out the door and into the hall.

His leg still throbbed in pain from time to time from nerve damage done a few years before. The company doctor had wanted to completely remove it from the knee down, telling him that it would be of no real use to him after what had happened—the calf muscle getting torn and shredded nearly completely off when a new miner lost control of the swing on his pick ax and caught him square in the leg; Pie Eater wouldn't hear of it though. He had a family to take care of! Emily was only one at the time and prone to horrible ear infections that cost more than they could really afford to spend getting medicines and antidotes for. Alex, their oldest son, was fourteen when the accident happened, leaving him to momentarily fill the shoes as 'head of the house'. Taking matters into his own hands, the teen went down into the mines, determined to help keep his family from becoming homeless.

Stepping into the room Alex had shared with his younger brother Landon, Pie Eater paused as he looked around the empty room. Far brighter than his years, Landon had gone to live with his grandparents in Philadelphia at the age of eight. The teachers at the local school were baffled by his intelligence, correcting them on theories that they as college graduates had only just learned about. Many times he would even go so far as to correct textbooks and offer to teach on a subject when the teacher was too dumbfounded to answer him. Being of the wealthy sort, Megan's parents were able to provide for him his own special private schooling. They got letters and phone calls from the sixteen-year-old often, telling them all about his latest venture in one thing or another, though mostly he talked of what he planned to have developed or patented later on.

Pie Eater shook his head as he continued through the empty room and to the door on the opposite side that lead to a much smaller room where nine-year-old Randy and seven-year-old Annie slept. It was to be the last summer the pair had to share a room. In the fall Alex was going to be leaving for Annapolis, Maryland where by sheer grace of all things above he'd been accepted into the United States Naval Academy. When he moved out, Annie and Emily would be taking his and Landon's old room, leaving Randy to finally room alone.

Moving to their bedside, a small smile on his face, he gently shook Randy's shoulder. Waiting until the boy opened his hazel eyes, softly spoke his name, waking him from his sweet slumber. "Randy, Randy wake up. Take Annie and go sleep in my room with your mom and sister tonight. There's more of a breeze in there; your mom has the fan going."

"Huh? Wha-?"

"Go on into my room, buddy. Take Annie with you. I have to go to work."

Nodding in a sleep-filled daze, Randy slowly shook his sister awake, handing her the love worn teddy bear she'd gotten from Alex on her fourth birthday in the process. Johnny smiled as he kissed both their heads before shooing them off down the hall to the room where their mother still sat staring out the window towards the mine. Taking one last look, he turned and started out the door, grabbing his heavy denim jacket and black hard hat off the hook by the door on his way.

Many times in the past three years Johnny had made that walk from his house to the mine shaft in the middle of the night or on one of his rare days off. Many times he'd walked back home, head in hands before having to make the most difficult calls of his life—letting the wives who were at the market when a tunnel collapsed know that their husband's wouldn't be returning home that night after work, telling the mothers who had just spoken to their sons that morning at breakfast not to set a place for them at dinner. He'd lost a lot of good men in those tunnels, a lot of good men and a lot of good friends.

The police department and employees of the Highland Coal Mining Company set up barricades around the shaft, doing their best to make sure civilians didn't get too close and possibly get hurt. Women huddled together, clutching to each other's bathrobes as they screamed and sobbed, desperate for news of their loved ones. The men who were unable to work in the mine for whatever reason, tried to keep the crowd calm and under control while letting the ambulance through without letting anyone else in. It was a gut-wrenching sound, the shrill scream of the ambulance sirens mixed with the sobs of the women. The worst sound though, Pie Eater thought as he gently patted a few shoulders on his way through the crowd, was the sound of those women's knees sinking to the cold hard ground when they found out their Paul or Henry, Timmy or Bobby hadn't made it out alive.

He hadn't wanted to become a miner. When Megan had first met him working as a clerk at the small bakery in Greensboro, he'd been quite content making pastries and donuts, loafs of bread and dozens of sweet-and sourdough-rolls each morning. It was Megan's father, Herbert Highland, who convinced him to work in one of his prosperous coal mines after the two had gotten married. To be honest, Pie Eater hated every wretched moment he spent hunched over in those cold, damp tunnels. The work was harder than any he had ever experienced in his life. Compared to those mines, living on the rough streets of New York City hawking papers day in and day out was the lap of luxury. It took nearly fifteen years and an accident that nearly cost him his left leg to finally get him out of the tunnels and into the office up top as a foreman.

Ghosts of men parted as he limped by, their faces ashen from lack of sunshine, dirt and coal dust blackening their hands, cheeks and hair. All around him, men rushed to and fro, shouting at this one about one thing or that one about something else. Doctor Franklin was already on scene, waiting anxiously for the heavy steel lift to rise up from the pits and release the first wave of survivors. His hard hat covering his now salt and pepper hair, Pie Eater moved closer to the shaft, ready to make the call for people to pry open the lift's doors if they didn't open soon. Suddenly, he felt his heart catch as a cry erupted to his right.

"IT'S COMING UP!!"

Turning his head, Pie Eater watched as the medics and Dr. Franklin rushed to the great rusted doors, plumes of smoke and dust rising up from every available crack and opening. The gears squeaked as the pulley system strained itself to bring the load up. His eyes squinting against the bright light at the top of the lift shaft, Pie Eater prayed that the old cable would hold out just one more night, just long enough to get everyone out of the bowls of the earth. He could feel his stomach twisting with fear and he silently screamed at the lift to get to the surface faster.

Metal scraping on metal sent shivers down the forty-seven year olds spine. It felt like lifetimes since the cable started moving and Johnny was sure he couldn't bear the wait any longer. A hush came over the crowd as the _chunk-clunk_ of the braking device brought the cable to a halt at ground level once again.

"Get those doors open! C'mon, don't just stand around! Get them open! Get those guys out!" Pie Eater suddenly shouted, pointing to the heavy doors that were refusing to open. Cries and screams from inside the cage like lift caused the bile in his stomach to rise. He could smell the burning timbers down below. The collapse must have knocked loose a lantern in another part of the tunnel, igniting the wooden planks and boards keeping the earth from falling in on itself. If it was engulfing the frame work, then it was only a matter of minutes before it would start its devastating climb up the shaft.

The screams for help only seemed to get more frantic by the second, the scent of melting metal quickly mixing with the wood, making the barely breathable air even more ghastly. Car after wooden car filled with coal sat directly under the lift, quickly succumbing to the flames around them. Pie Eater screamed for the fire brigade to be let through, ordering men to get the crowd further away from the mine. It wasn't going to do them any good trying to snuff the fire out with pails of water and dirt, and he wondered if the single water truck the small town owned was going to be enough to do any damage either.

He watched as his men continued to struggle with the doors. It had to be getting hot inside, the floor of the lift nothing more than a few sheets of steel laid out with two by four planks on top to form the floor. The walls however were simply mesh grating, supposed to be so that the men didn't suffocate to death should the lift get stuck. No one seemed to have thought about the possibility of it getting stuck during a fire.

"Keep working those doors! I don't care what you have to do to get them open, just open them!" Pie Eater shouted, pointing to one of the larger men working for him before turning to run to his office. His leg screamed in protest as he forced it to carry his weight the few hundred feet into his smoke filled office. Coughing, he grabbed his phone off his desk, yanked the cord as far as it would go before rushing back outside.

Nearly two miles north of town, a river had been dammed off to form a large lake the company used for functions and picnics. Mr. Highland, feeling that his employees deserved someplace nice to get away to from time to time, had finally—though inadvertently—thought of something useful to go towards his company! A few years before Pie Eater got hurt, he and a few other men had been working on a tunnel that butted right up against one of the dams to the lake. They'd often joked while sitting next to the cool little stream eating their lunch that if that dam ever let loose or was to be opened while they were working, they'd be washed away down the tunnel for sure.

Getting on the phone to the man who stood guard at the dam, Pie Eater felt certain his idea was a long shot, but it was a shot he was going to have to take. Providing it worked, the water released from the dam should go through the tunnel until it reached the fire, extinguishing the blaze in a matter of seconds—that was, providing it wasn't the north end of the tunnel that caved in.

"Danny! Danny I need you to listen to me! Open the south gate! No I'm not yankin' ya! Do it! Do it now! All the way, damnit! Don't worry about that! Worse that'll happen is it washes back out into the river bed! I need that south gate opened, right now! Let it rip, a good thirty or forty-five seconds, then close it up! I got a fire in a tunnel that's about to do away with a whole bunch of guys, my son included!"

Not waiting for a reply, Pie Eater slammed the phone back down before dropping it to the ground. The heat from the fire could already be felt billowing from the top of the shaft. _If we don't get those doors open and those guys out of there fast, they…_Pie Eater didn't dare finish that thought. He knew exactly what happened when an extremely hot fire met with water. The steam alone would be enough to boil everyone inside the lift like a Maine lobster.

Suddenly, the doors to the lift inched open.

Using every ounce of strength they had, every available man rushed forward, grabbing hold of whatever they could to help pull and push the doors wide open. Men stumbled forward, some clutching to broken limbs while others held tight to each other or helped to carry the unconscious out. _Seventeen…seventeen…there should be seventeen guys. Seventeen, Alex's age…he should be at home in bed!_

"…thirteen…fourteen…" Pie Eater counted as he scanned the quickly maddening crowd for his late shift crew. Looking back to the shaft, he watched as another two came stumbling out. _Fifteen and sixteen…_

Another rumble rattled underfoot.

"Another tunnel collapsed!"

"Heaven help us!!"

Screams and cries filled the air as the already panicked crowed clung to one another. Pie Eater could hear the roar of water rushing towards the entrance to the shaft just before a cloud of steam shot up through the lift and out the top like the whistle of a steam engine. Sixteen men, why did he only count sixteen? His body felt tight with fear as he realized he hadn't seen Alex get off the lift. He couldn't have still been down in that tunnel; surely they wouldn't have left him there even if he had been killed in the collapse.

"Boss! Boss, we…we lost him, Boss." A voice said from behind him. Pie Eater felt his heart stop as those words met his ears. Gulping, he slowly turned to face who had said that horrible phrase.

His mouth suddenly dry, he felt his hands start to tremble. "Who? Lost who?"

"Jonas, he didn't make it out. He was in the south end of the tunnel when it came down."

"No…no that's not possible. Jonas wasn't working tonight, he asked Alex to work for him. Where's Alex?"

The man stood for a moment looking at Pie Eater in confusion, his face covered in soot and grime. "Boss, Jonas was working tonight. He'd asked Alex to cover for him but at the last minute Alex told him he couldn't do it…wasn't feelin' well or something. Jonas was down there with us."

Eyes going wide in relief, Pie Eater pushed through the crowd, frantically calling his son's name. If he wasn't in that tunnel then he had to be around there somewhere. Grabbing shoulders and turning people around to get a look at them, the once quiet and rather shy newsboy now yelled at the top of his lungs, demanding to know where his son was if not in the tunnel.

"POP! HEY POP!!"

"ALEX!?"

Turning in circles trying to find the source of the cry, Pie Eater finally spotted the blond headed boy waving frantically from the bed of a pick-up truck, one hand holding onto the top of the cab as it hurtled down the dirt street towards the crowd. Ignoring the pain in his leg once more, the father of five half ran/half hobbled towards the truck.

Before it could even come to a stop, Alex leapt from the back and ran for his father. It should have been him in that tunnel, it _could have been_ him in that tunnel. Giving his dad a tight hug for a moment, he pulled back to smile sheepishly.

"Where…we thought…"

"I know…I know. I was supposed to work tonight but, when I got to the mine I just…got this weird feeling. Felt really sick, ya know? So I told Jonas I couldn't do it…I needed to go get some fresh air and cool off or something cuz I felt so sick. Dougie and I were at the Lake when we heard the sirens going off. Next thing we knew the dam was getting opened. Rushed back here as soon as we could." Alex glanced over his father's shoulder as he saw the men still working at the mine shaft to get things closed off so no one else could get hurt.

"I thought I'd lost you, boy…" Pie Eater felt his voice tremble as he pulled Alex in for another hug. Never in his life had he been so happy to find his son had backed out of his promise to work just so he could go swim at the lake.

Alex laughed lightly as he shook his head, hugging his father right back. "Are you nuts? The week before you're supposed to go to California? Risk missin' the chance to get you and ma outta the house for a week or so? Not a chance."

* * *

Donnie stared at the framed picture in awe. He couldn't believe the full and exciting life most of his father's old friends had. Businessmen, stock broker, government agents, gangsters, ranchers and farmers, even a mine foreman! His mind swirled as he thought about the possibilities. Here these boys had grown up without half the things he had and yet somehow managed to make something of their lives.

"Hey dad? Did Pie Eater ever find any diamonds? Do you think he'll bring 'em with?"

Les laughed as he shrugged and ruffled his son's hair. "I don't know, you'll have to ask him when you see him."

Smiling brightly and rolling his head out from under his father's hand, Donnie looked down at the picture once more. He couldn't wait to meet everyone, to see if the stories his father and uncle had been telling him were true or not.

"Did you tell him about Dmitri yet, Les?" David asked, moving to sit back down across from the father-son duo, sipping on a cup of coffee as he nodded towards the picture.

"Which one's that?" Donnie looked at the picture and wondered, curious as to which one of the two left was Dmitri.

A sad smile crossing his face, Les shook his head.

"Dmitri Cort, this one right here…" He answered, tapping his finger on the image of a boy nearly falling down between Race and Spot, his mouth hanging open while one arm was slung over Spot's shoulder in an attempt to not kiss the platform.


	17. Dutchy: The Winds of Change

**Author's Note: Major big shout-out to Peg for beta reading this chapter for me! Thanks girly! And I promise, Skittery's chapter will be up a lot sooner than this one was! =D Please enjoy and pleeeeeeeeease don't forget to leave me a review. Thanks!**

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17. Dutchy: The Winds of Change

If there was one thing he had learned in his life, it was that nothing ever lasted forever; everything and everyone changed—especially in New York City. Dmitri could remember a time when it seemed he and his friends would be together forever within those walls at No. 9 Duane Street, with the China and Crockery store right next to them with barrels for the boys to leap over every morning on their way out to sell papes, and Tibby's right across the street with the best beef sandwiches he'd ever had in his life. All of that was gone now though. His friends had all grown and struck out on their own, leaving Dmitri "Dutchy" Cort alone; the lodging house now dark and cold, Kloppman long deceased. The phantom laughter and thundering footsteps down the stairs could still be heard in the very early morning hours, long before he would rise from bed.

Oh, how unfair life could be sometimes.

No one asked him if he wanted to be left behind to take care of the lodging house when their beloved grandfather figure fell ill. No one asked him if he wanted to inherit the only home any of them had ever known so that other 'lost boys' –and eventually the occasional lost girl—could have a safe place to stay. And no one asked him if he wanted those hallowed halls to be knocked down just so the city could remap its streets.

Tibby's had already been torn to the ground, as had most of the buildings on the block; the empty lot now a sad reminder of how trivial places like that were in the grand scheme of the ever expanding city. Soon, the workers would be there, with their hammers and tools, sealing off the area to finish the rest of the block, including the poor dilapidated No. 9. No longer would the sounds of Crutchy's crutch and shuffle scratch across the floor of the bunkroom. Every memory, good and bad, Dutchy had revolved around that building.

He first stumbled upon the lodging house when he was only five years old, scared and cold; he crept into the lobby wearing not much more than just a ratty old nightshirt with his long blond hair matted and caked with mud and dried blood. His sapphire blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears as he looked around the lobby, clearly unsure of where he was or how he got there. The mighty big bump and gash on the side of his head left poor Dutchy disoriented and never quite right from that moment on. No one knew how he'd gotten such a horrible head injury, or where he came from, but one thing they did know, Dutchy had been living in that lodging house longer than anyone else.

Old man Kloppman had all but adopted the poor little blond boy when he found him asleep on the foyer stairs; he took him in, tended his wounds and even gave him a name when he couldn't remember his own. Dutchy had been the first of the original gang to live at Duane Street. Not many people knew that the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy was a bit slower than the rest; he and Kloppman did well not to let the others know he was different. Still, his childish mind and thought process made him look and occasionally act like a little boy. He may not have been the brightest of the bunch, but one thing was for certain: Dutchy had a heart of gold.

At forty-five years old, the oldest newsie left at No. 9 was soon to bid a sad farewell to the beloved lodging house. When Kloppman fell ill and finally lost his battle, Dutchy took over the LH and did his best to keep it up and running. He'd only been twenty-five at the time he gained ownership of the establishment, but still he kept the doors open to give the newsies a place to stay.

It had been Les who came and told Dutchy that the entire block the lodging house was located on was going to be torn down. The city had decided to remap and reroute a number of streets in the city, Duane Street being one of the many that was soon to be completely redone. Les had often taken lunch with his blond older friend, finding his companionship and laughter a nice break from all the hustle and business of the courtrooms.

"_Dutchy, I know this is hard, but there's nothing I can do now. I've tried everything I can think of…there's no way to stop it."_

"_But…but Les, you __gotta__ do something! It's the lodgin' house! Kloppman was the first and original keeper of it! He died there! Please. It's the only home some of these kids have ever known…it's the only home __I've__ ever known."_

_Les sighed as he set his cup of coffee down, the last cup of coffee he and his friend would have at Tibby's Restaurant. Shaking his head, he looked up into the sad blue eyes, once again sparkling with unshed tears hidden behind the silver frames of his age-old glasses. _

"_I know Dutchy, but I've tried. There's other lodging houses and homes for the kids to move to, I'm sure there's even families that would open their doors to some of them."_

_Dutchy felt his lip tremble and he quickly pressed both lips together, turning away to blink out the window. From where they sat, the pair could look across the street and see the building where the chipped hunter green-painted door stood wide open, teens and young boys drifting in and out of its confines without a care in the world. At least they'd have one last Christmas at No. 9 Duane Street; demolishing wasn't scheduled until the following spring and summer, and it would be time for them all to find a new place to call home._

"_What if…what if we got all the fellas back here and we all went in, you, me, them, the kids, everyone? What if we all went in and told them they couldn't tear it down? It'd be just like the strike, right? We won the strike__,__ didn't we?"_

"_Dutch…this isn't like the strike. Kids don't have the power in this city like they did when we were younger. The majority of newsies are kids with homes and families and just sell when they get out of school in the afternoon. All it's gonna do if we all go storming in there is make us all look like a bunch of fools. It's not going to change anything."_

_Gulping hard, Dutchy looked back down at the table, his finger slowly tracing out the same thing over and over on the wooden table. S-T-R-I-K-E…S-T-R-I-K-E…_

"_Dutchy, everything is going to be fine."_

The bunkrooms were empty, all the metal-framed beds scrapped and tossed to the side. The washrooms were cleared of the toiletries and wash basins and the hidden compartments beneath the loose floorboards sat bare. Every last piece of personal belongings that once turned the cold dark building into the warm home so many boys had known were gone. The only things remaining in the lodging house were the few precious items Dutchy had left.

Gulping, he slowly wandered the building, turning off lights and checking to make sure everything was in order. Shuffling through the deserted bunkroom, he closed his eyes and smiled slightly.

"_So how'd ya sleep, Jack?"  
"On me back, Mush…"_

"Hear that fellas? Hear what Jack said? He asked Jack how he slept and he said 'On me back, Mush.'" Dutchy said softly as he continued through the empty room. A small smile spread across his face as he moved back towards the steps.

"_Hey fellas! Wait up!"_

Turning quickly, he swore he saw Tumbler sliding across the floor, struggling to tug his britches up while Snoddy laughed and reached to slap Dutchy's hat down, just as they had so many years before. Just as quickly as he saw it, the vision vanished, the bunkroom returned to its darkness.

Moving slowly down the stairs, he smiled as he faintly heard the thundering footsteps following him down and running out the door. Pausing on the landing where one picture still hung, he looked it over. Kloppman had given it to him the Christmas after the strike. That newspaper hung on the wall by the stairs for nearly twenty-five years, a constant reminder to all who saw it just what kids were able to do when they put their mind to something.

Taking the frame off the wall and tucking it under his arm, Dutchy moved for the counter where his only two items sat waiting for him. Sighing heavily, he trailed his fingers down the ledger, quietly reading the names to himself, wishing all of them one last goodbye. All the completed ledger books had been safely tucked away in Les' home library where he'd been promised they would be well taken care of save for that last one. The last book of names, Dutchy's Lost Boys, ever to be signed within those walls. Closing the book slowly, he placed the picture frame on top of it before reaching out for his old, beat-up, leather bound baseball—dark brown and polished to a fine shine with age and use. Tossing it into the air, he caught it carefully and smiled softly.

"_Hey Dutchy! C'mon let's go! Throw me the ball!"  
"Move it will ya? The papes ain't gonna sell demselves!"_

A small smile still playing on his lips, he gathered his things and slowly shuffled towards the door. Glancing over his shoulder one last time, Dutchy grinned sadly at the ghosts of boys he once called brothers leaning against the counter. Bumlets, Blink, Crutchy, Specs and Pie Eater, the whole gang smiled back at him.

"_Try Bottle Ally or Da Harbor…"  
"Try Central Park it's guaranteed…"  
"Try any banker, bum, or barber…"  
"They almost all knows how ta read."_

Flipping off the last light, Dutchy stepped out onto the empty street, closing and locking the door behind him.

Nothing ever stayed the same in New York City for very long. Buildings and people came and went with the seasons. Soon all that would be left of No. 9 Duane Street would be the memories the newsboys had stored away in their hearts and minds.

Tugging his worn dark grey cabbie hat down over his bright blond bangs, Dutchy readjusted his glasses and clutched his life memories of his home close to his chest as he bounced down the few steps one last time.

"Every morning, we'se as free as fishes, sure beats washin' dishes, what a fine life! Carryin' the banner home free all…"

* * *

Donnie stared down at the newspaper, a wide grin plastered on his face as he examined the faces looking back at him. By the time they got to Los Angeles, he was sure he'd be able to pick out everyone who was able to attend and know them by name. Looking back up at his father, he moved across the seats to sit next to him again.

"So…what did ever happen to Dutchy? I know we have some of his stuff at our house…but, where'd he go?"

Les gave a small smile as he pulled his son in for a gentle hug. "I'm not really sure. When I talked to Skittery though, he promised me that Dutchy was going to be at the reunion."

Donnie leaned in against Les and looked down at the picture again.

"Good. I liked him."

Laughing lightly, Les nodded as he glanced back at Dave who was just returning from talking to the conductor. "I know, kiddo. So what's the news, Davey?"

"Next stop, Los Angeles." Dave smiled as he sat back down and got comfortable. "We should be there in about a half hour."

Looking up from the picture and glancing between both his uncle and father, Donnie bounced in his seat excitedly. Finally, after hours of waiting, bustling on the noisy train, they'd be pulling into the Los Angeles. His feet tapping against the floor, he pointed back down to the picture.

"So…this is Skittery right? He's the one who set this whole thing up?"

"Yup…that's him. Good ol' Glum 'n' Dumb…"


	18. Skittery: Hooray for Hollywood

18. Skittery: Hooray for Hollywood!

Palm trees, white sandy beaches, and the gentle roar of the waves washing to shore; the sights and sounds of California were nearly intoxicating. By the busloads people would arrive just to catch a glimpse of what was to be the most beautiful place in the country. Nothing seemed to compare to the blue water of the mighty Pacific crashing into the outcroppings and cliffs up and down the beach. The bright sunshine and laid-back atmosphere made Southern California the perfect place for anyone trying to reduce their stress level and start a new life for themselves.

That was only part of it though. Move inland from the beach and one is met with bustling cities and booming communities. Movie companies and studios popped up faster than weeds in summer, occupying spaces that just months before sat vacant. The tiny town of Los Angeles had quickly become the hub of activity for anyone wanting to pursue an acting career and even those just looking for a change of pace. Just north of town, a cluster of homes were being built in the hills under a large sign proclaiming 'HOLLYWOODLAND'; around the homes, sets and crews worked to produce moving picture shows for the country to enjoy.

Hidden among the larger studios, one lone tiny building sat under the shade of the Coast Live Oak trees surrounding it. Cool and comfortable, the perfect little get away from the pelting rays of sun. Only a handful of people drifted lazily through its door; a few men carrying bulky cameras while others slung pants and shirts over their shoulders to return to the larger studios next door. Inside, the little building was deceptively large, housing a restroom, two make-up rooms, two dressing rooms, a small sound stage, and a loft where a make-shift office sat.

A group gathered on the floor of the sound stage, watching intently as the actors finished their final scene. A little girl with dark brown hair--cropped so that she better resembled a little boy-- smiled brightly as she was hoisted onto an older boy's shoulders, both kids pumping their fists into the air, their faces glowing with pride and triumph. All around the two kids, other children and 'little people' cheered and bounced around happily while three or four men stood off to the side watching intently.

"And…cut! Perfect! That was great guys, really it was. Allan, you can let Betty down now, careful you don't drop her this time. Betty, you were perfect. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear you really were Les. Great, really. Alright, that's a wrap!"

A cheer went up from everyone around as the tall, lean man dressed in dark grey slacks and a dirty light grey button up shirt smiled and patted the young actors on the back. After months of long hard work, desperately searching for the funding to make his _own_ film, Mikhail McKenzie finally put his story down for all to see. It was by no means going to be a smash hit, bound to make him a rich and famous director, but at least the world would continue to know.

Watching as the cast disbanded and scurried to return their costumes and change back into their regular clothes, Mikhail looked to his right-hand-man and smiled. "Ash, get this developed and edited as fast as you can…but don't be sloppy with it. I wanna show it to all the guys on Saturday before they leave."

"Sure thing, Boss." Ash nodded in understanding as he took the last canister of film and, keeping it tucked close to his body, hurried from the building and out into the bright sunlight.

Taking one last look around the emptying soundstage, the forty-eight-year old director headed out the back door and out onto a wooden patio. Squinting at the sudden brightness, he sighed as he turned to head up the rickety wooden stairs that led to the only door to the loft office. It was already Sunday and the first arrivals were due in any time; which left him with a lot to do and little time to do it.

Closing the door behind him and flipping on the light, Mikhail moved to sit down behind his desk. Heaving a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes as he laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in the chair. The ceiling fan above him spun slowly, struggling to cool the broiling loft. It was hotter than the fires of Hell itself up there, but given what little money he could afford to spend, it served its purpose quite well.

Mikhail "Skittery" McKenzie arrived in California twenty-five-years prior with little money and nothing more than the clothes on his back. In 1905, it was hard to find work he was capable of doing. Waiting tables at night and doing construction work during the day wasn't what he had in mind for his new life away from New York. There were nights where he laid in his rented bunk, listening to the other vagabonds snoring away, wishing he had stayed back in New York where he at least had friends. True, he'd often been in a sour mood and had a bleak outlook on his life as a newsie, but it had at least been a source of entertainment for himself, and kept him close to those he considered to be his only family.

He hadn't originally wanted to get into the show business, but in need of money and steady work, he found himself as a runner at an up-and-coming movie studio; having given up the construction work as he'd broken more things than he'd fixed (not to mention broken his thumb with a hammer more times than he cared to remember), he was soon working closely with Charlie Chaplin, Lillian Gish, Mary Pickford and the famous director D.W. Griffith. At first, Skittery wasn't at all impressed with the glitter and glam of the production lights and orders of everyone around him. To them, he was just another street kid trying to make a buck off them, and to him, they were just a bunch of hoity-toity highbrows.

It took Skittery close to two years before he finally started actually watching what was going on. He'd watch the camera operator switch rolls of film quickly while the director was struggling to get their actor to understand what and how they were supposed to react to absolutely nothing. It soon began to fascinate him how the actors could tell their story without ever saying a single word. Of them all, Chaplin fascinated him the most. It amazed him how the small man could be laughing and joking one minute and in an instant transform into the silent "Little Tramp" he was best known for. Chaplin soon became one of Mikhail's closest friends and was instrumental in helping him get what he needed to start directing.

It was Chaplin, Pickford and Griffith's studio, United Artists, that allowed Skittery to dip his toes into the production end of business and let him begin to develop his art. Without their help and guidance, he'd probably still be running back and forth to wardrobe or the prop room making barely enough to keep his rented bunk. Thanks to them though, he now had enough money to rent his own studio, have his own home and even his pride and joy, a brand new 1929 Pierce-Arrow convertible.

Though he was in no way, shape, or form as rich as his mentors, Skittery was thankful for what he did have. Never in his life as a newsie in New York did he imagine he would one day have all the things he did. If anyone had walked up to him on the streets when he was a teen and told him one day he'd have his own home, a nice fancy car, a housekeeper, even his own family, he would have laughed in their face and told them to get lost.

It had been Skittery's idea for everyone to get together for this thirtieth year reunion in celebration not only of thirty years since they showed Pulitzer who was _really_ the boss, but also to celebrate the completion of his very first two-reel film. He knew that all of his old friends had scattered across the country, some even having died, and it made him rather sad. They had been such a close-knit group, the only family so many of them had ever known, yet in just a matter of a few years everyone went their own separate ways. Luckily, he'd learned that Bumlets lived just across town, which made him feel a little better, but he still missed the others.

Had it not been for Bumlets, word of the possible reunion would have remained just that, a dream and wishful thinking. Bumlets was the one who sent word to Pie Eater about it; Pie Eater sent a letter to Jake who called Blink; Blink sent a telegram to David and before too long everyone was getting hold of each other buzzing with excitement over getting together again. The last time a group of them had gotten together, it had been for Snipeshooter's funeral, and even then it had only been a small handful of them.

Before Skittery even knew what was happening, he was getting telegrams, phone calls, and letters from the remaining newsboys asking if the rumors of a reunion were true. What was he supposed to tell them all? No? The whole gang wanted in on the action, everyone was anxious to find out what had ever happened to the rest of their pals. In no time at all, the fine details had been worked out, a date had been set, and word was sent back to all who were interested. _Extry! Extry! Newsies crusade! Reunion stops the West Coast! July 19 thru 25__th__! _Read the invitations each former newsie received in the mail.

"Pop? Hey Pop? You awake in there?"

Opening his eyes and sitting back up, Mikhail glanced to the door where a young man stood. A near mirror image of himself at that age, Mikhail nodded and waved for him to enter.

"Yeah Mike…I'm awake."

Michael moved through the small office and over to his father's desk. The same chocolate brown eyes and thick brown hair, it was easy for anyone to see that those two were clearly father and son.

"Hey, just got word that Race's plane landed a little bit ago, you want me to go pick him up?"

A wide smile spreading across his face, Mikhail stood up, stretched, and moved around the desk. Placing his hand on his twenty-year-old son, he shook his head. "Nah, I got it. You go home and make sure everything's all set to go…we're in for one crazy week, Kid."


	19. Epilogue: Newsies

**Author's Note: **Alright...I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the one and only Dominic Lucero. No one mentioned it on the list, but July 1st it was sixteen years since his passing. I know I speak for everyone when I say he is still deeply missed and will NEVER be forgotten as long as Newsie fans have anything to say about it. Dominic, we love you and know you're havin' a blast spinnin' from ceiling fans in Heaven. Someday, you'll hafta teach all us fan girls (no pun intended) how to do that.

Now then, to Adren: It's finished! Now stop poking and prodding! My arm's all bruised up! LOL! Just playin'...it was your poking and prodding that got me to finish this. And so...here it is. All done! No more! So to everyone else...Enjoy! And pleeeeeeease don't forget to review! Thankies...and good night.

* * *

Epilogue: Newsies

It was as if time had never passed. The laughter, the smiles, it was all the same as it was thirty years before. The newsboys were together again; once more reliving old times, both the good and the bad. Distance had kept them apart all those years, but it was their love and companionship that had brought them back together in California.

Donnie sat in awe as he watched the flickering light of the projector shine Skittery's latest project on the wall of the closed restaurant. The way the strike was portrayed through the surly director's eyes made the young boy's stomach tighten with anticipation. Though he'd heard the story from his father before they left New York, there was something about actually watching it take place –even if it was just on a piece of film shone onto an empty wall—that made the tale all the more powerful for little Donnie. He watched with his mouth hanging open as the young kids on screen shook their fists in triumph while the old man shook his head in defeat.

"Is that you, dad?" He asked in a quiet whisper, his eyes never leaving the wall as the littlest of boys was hoisted onto the leader's shoulders.

Les smiled slightly as he nodded, his hand moving to rest gently on his son's shoulder. "That's me…"

Donnie smiled proudly at that. His dad was being portrayed in a movie…and his Uncle…and even his Aunt was shown once or twice! Looking between his dad and uncle, Donnie grinned as he looked back at the screen. Both brothers never realized at the time just how big their fight for justice had been, they were just standing up for what they believed in. Les wasn't much older than Donnie when the strike took place, and didn't truly understand what they were fighting for at the time, but he knew then though, that it was his voice –his cry of "Strike!" when everyone else was too afraid to speak up—that had helped to bring the others the courage they needed to go up against the Goliath.

As the film fluttered and sputtered to its end, there was a moment of quiet as the men gathered in the dinning area grasped at what they had just seen. The memories of that strike were still just as fresh in their minds as the day it happened. A few of the former newsboys wiped at their eyes with the sleeves of their shirts, while others took in quick, deep gasps of air before looking away. Donnie bit his lip as he looked around, waiting for someone to do something. When no one moved, the young boy, following in his father's footsteps, took it upon himself to stand up and start clapping.

Skittery looked up when he heard the sound of chair legs scooting across the floor and watched as the little boy, looking very much like Les did at that age, stood up bravely. A small smile crept onto the forty-eight year olds face as Donnie began to clap for the film. Around him, his fellow newsboys blinked back their emotions before one by one they each began to stand: Dutchy first, then Dave and Les, Jack and Racetrack followed by Swifty, Itey, Jake and Specs, Snoddy with Boots and Bumlets, Blink and Mush and Pie Eater slowly bringing up the rear. The once quiet room was soon roaring with the sounds of whoops and hollers as the boys applauded their old friend.

Their applauds weren't just for Skittery and his movie though; they were for themselves and each other, they were for their fallen friends and those who weren't able to make it to the reunion. The clapping sang out for Snipeshooter—who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, for Snitch—who gave his life so valiantly for God and Country, to Spot—who for once had tried to do something right in his life and was now going to be paying for it with his life in the end, and to Crutchy—the ever smiling gimp who never let his crutch slow him down.

"Speech! Speech!" Some voices called over the sounds of the applauds.

Skittery waved them off though, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. "I don't do speeches! You want speeches…get Jack or Davy to give one."

All eyes fell on the two men who hadn't spoken in years. The last time either of them had given a speech, it was the night of the Rally. Dave dared a glance in his old best friend's direction and let his gaze linger, trying to find the once brave and youthful face of the Jack he once knew. As if sensing David's look, the former strike leader slowly lifted his head and turned to look across the room at him. There, hidden behind years of guilt and sadness, was the glimmer of mischief Jack "Cowboy" Kelly was so known for.

"I've got this one, Jack." Dave nodded as their unspoken truce was made final by a simple nod and friendly smile.

"It's about damn time you had the guts to put 'em across yourself."

Snorts and chuckles followed as the men gathered all reached for their glasses; Blink and Mush sharing a grin and laugh of their own as they each held up separate glasses this time. Raising his own glass, Dave looked around at all the faces present.

"It's been a long time since we all were together like this. Times change and so do people. Never in a thousand years though did I think we all would be able to sit in a room together and see our story, the story of how a band of misfits like us were able to bring the powerful to their knees. I tell every new class every year about the Great Newsies Strike of 1899 and use us as an example of what is possible when you believe strongly enough in something. Not a day goes by that I don't think about that strike, or about any of you. We've lost a lot of friends in the past few years, mine and Les' parents, Medda, and most recently Bryan Denton. They aren't forgotten though, none of them are, Skittery made sure of it. It's my hope that one day others will get to see his film though, so that others will know that Denton was right; sometimes all it takes is one voice, one voice that becomes a hundred and then a thousand unless it's silenced. So once again guys, for old time's sake…for our man, Denton."

Dave gulped back the emotion straining to break through in his voice as he raised his glass higher, the others following in suit.

"To our man, Denton!"

Jack watched as the others drank their toast to Denton and their fallen friends. Waiting for them to finish, he stood once more.

"Alright, I never was much good at givin' speeches that were my own…I always used The Walkin' Mouth over there as my speech writer. So I'm gonna keep this short and sweet. It's been thirty years since the strike…let's not make it another thirty years till we see each other again, huh?"

A chorus of "here here!" struck up through the restaurant as the men drank another toast.

Donnie blinked quickly as he took everything in around him. The air was filled with mixed emotions, guilt that so much time had passed them by already, sadness for their missing friends, and appreciation that no one would ever forget them or their struggle. Picking up his glass of soda, Donnie moved to carefully stand on his chair so he could be seen by all.

"Donnie, what are you doin'? Don't stand on the chair."

"Don, get down."

Ignoring both his uncle and his father, Donnie cleared his throat and timidly raised his own glass.

"I…I'm gonna make sure no one forgets either," he began, his voice quiet and unsure as everyone present turned to look at him.

"Yeah kid, how ya gonna do that?" Racetrack questioned lightheartedly as he puffed away on his cigar.

Gulping hard, Donnie gathered what courage he had left. "I…I'm gonna write books about the strike, and tell people about it, and tell _my_ kids about it when I grow up, and maybe one day they'll tell their kids. And…and maybe one of them will even find a way to make it into a flicker that lots of people will watch, not just all of us. And if lots of people watch it, then they'll tell people about the strike…and so none of you will ever be forgotten."

Skittery chuckled softly as he tilted his head to one side and looked at the little boy. Something inside told him that the kid had just enough of his uncle and father in him that he'd stick to his guns and do just that, too.

"What's the movie gonna be called, Donnie? I wanna see it when it's all done." He asked, smiling over the heads of his friends to the boy who had been so very quiet the whole week, soaking in stories and scenes like a sponge to water.

"Maybe it could be called 'Newsies Stop the World'." Donnie mused, his small shoulders shrugging.

"How about, just 'Newsies'?"

A bright smile spread across Donnie's face as he ran the single word over and over in his head. He definitely liked the sound of it. "Yeah! It'll be called 'Newsies'! And I'll make sure everyone is in it! Even my grandparents and Medda and Mr. Denton and Spot…everyone! Then no one will forget!"

Les smiled proudly as his son's shoulders lifted and straightened. His old friends all smiled, some laughing lightly as they looked at the boy; the bright and excited smile plastered on his face that mirrored his father's the first day he sold papes with Jack. If there was anyone who had the childlike innocence and determination to make sure their story was continued to be told, it was that little boy.

"Hey Don, lemme know when the movie's finished, I wanna be the first to see it." Blink called from his place at the front of the room.

"Forget him, he'll only see half of it anyways," Mush teased as he tossed a dinner roll across the table, bouncing it off his business partner's head, "I wanna be the first to see it!"

"Why should you be the first to see it? We live closer!" Swifty protested as he pointed between himself, Itey and Racetrack.

"Ha! I live in the same city at least, plus, I drive the trolley that drops him off near school, I should be the first to see it!"

Suddenly, the room was full of the lighthearted arguments that once flooded the bunkrooms at Number 9 Duane St. Hats were playfully plucked from heads while shoulders were being nudged and pushed from all directions. It was as if time had suddenly stood still, allowing the teenage boys still trapped inside those grown men's bodies to break lose one last time and enjoy the company of old friends. There they all were, transported back in time to when they all were teens and together, running the streets of New York City and doing whatever they could just to make enough money to get by on.

"Don't tell them," Donnie whispered as he climbed down off his chair and leaned in close to his father, "but I want you and Uncle David and Jack to be the first ones to see it."

Les laughed softly as he pulled his son in for a hug. Who knew how long it would take for Donnie's wish to come true, if it ever even did. Ruffling his hair and smiling, Les nodded as he looked down into his son's eyes. "Sure kiddo…that'd be great."

Grinning from ear to ear, Donnie leaned in against Les and stifled a yawn. It had been one heck of a week for the boy, full of excitement and stories of adventures. Settling in and letting the laughter of the Newsies lull him to sleep, the boy sighed contently as his eyes slowly dropped closed.

"Seize the Day…huh, Dad?"

"And carryin' the banner, Donnie. Carryin' the banner."


End file.
